What Comes After
by TekaWolf
Summary: Things should have been perfect after Sherlock's return. Instead the world went up in screams. Among the chaos they swore to be there for each other. Not even death would have them break that promise. Zombie!lock.
1. Chapter 1

"I'm not leaving you, Sherlock." No amount of self control could hide the exhausted pain in John's voice.

"Idiot. Sentiment will get you killed." Sherlock's response was muffled by the thick door between them, but it did nothing to hide the breathless agony in the other man's voice. The sound made John's chest ache.

"Not by you at least." The doctor tried to be flippant but it was difficult to joke when his best friend was slowly dying not two feet away and he was powerless to even ease the pain. Sherlock gave a snort that dissolved into a hacking cough.

"Only so long as you do not do something incredibly stupid." The detective got his breath back enough to answer but he still sounded raw.

"I won't open the bloody door and I doubt you'll be able to break out of there." Both of their voices were tight even as they tried to carry on something like a normal conversation.

From the other side came a chuckle that broke into rasping coughs yet again. Sherlock wheezed as he tried to draw a breath that didn't end in hacking and slowly the rasping gasps faded into a silence that stretched on like a bottomless abyss.

"Sherlock?" John's question was soft, fear shaking the word. He received no answer.

"Sherlock?!" Panic spiked the name into a yell. In response there was another cough and a groan.

"'M n-not gone yet, John." Sherlock's voice was weak but there was a touch of bitter mirth beneath the words. John slumped back against the door with a thud and a breathless curse on which his voice broke.

"You do know I'm not going to last much longer?" The detective's weak voice held a great deal of resignation. John shuddered.

"I'm still not going to leave you." The doctor's voice was tight and hard.

"Idiot." To anyone else the words was an insult but John heard what almost sounded like an endearment.

"What are you going to do when I'm gone?" Sherlock's voice held a faint note of fear as he tried to keep the silence from becoming crushing.

"I'll keep doing what I've been doing. Surviving. And I'll come down here and tell you about it. No point in trying to keep a blog without the internet." John's voice shook, but they both ignored it as they had been ignoring every bit of pain and weakness and fear the other displayed. Just as John was ignoring the tears he could feel streaming down his face.

Sherlock snorted again and there was a soft thump as he leaned his head back against the door.

"Really John, you should go find other survivors. You're going to go mad talking to the groaning corpse in your basement as if it's still your flatmate." The derision in his voice fell on deaf ears.

"Friend." John didn't hesitate to snap out his correction. The silence that followed felt almost startled.

"Friend then." There was a smile in Sherlock's voice. John's heart ached further at the unusual agreement. His head thudded back against the door with a sigh.

"Best friend really. Closest I've ever had." The doctor's voice was chocking on his tears now. It took a full minute for Sherlock to respond and John almost jumped when he finally did.

"Only one I've ever had, really." The detective's voice trailed off into harsh breaths.

"Sherlock, I..." The rest of John's words were drowned out by sudden racking coughs. The sounds were wet and raw and final.

"Sherlock?!" The doctor surged to his feet, thumping painfully against the door as he did so. His panic was strong enough that he might have gone back on his word and opened the portal, but Sherlock had changed the locks in anticipation. Even as he pounded on the door the coughing subsided again into pained wheezing.

"Sherlock?" John was pleading now, voice breaking as he pressed against the door as if he could pass through it.

"John..." The doctor nearly missed the word, groaned out so faintly in a final breath. Silence fell , heavy and cold with only John's stuttering breaths to break it. He crumpled beneath the deafening quiet, sliding down to kneel in front of the barrier keeping him safe from the monster his friend's corpse would shortly become.

How long he knelt before Sherlock's tomb and prison he didn't know. Enough time passed that his tears ran dry. Enough time passed that the discomfort in his knees forced him to shift, sitting so that his back was against the door once more. Enough time passed that the virus that had killed Sherlock worked its final devastating change.

The crushing silence was broken by a rattling inhale, followed a minute later by an exhale that groaned out of a dead throat. John winced and took his own breath as the undead mockery of life shifted about in the dark on the other side of the door.

"I remember when we first met. You were standing with your nose in a microscope in a lab in Bart's. You'd just come from the morgue, where you'd apparently left your riding crop." The attempt at lightheartedness fell flat. He hesitated, listening a moment to the shuffling, uncoordinated movements.

"Never did ask why, wasn't sure I wanted to know. 'Course, now I think about it you were studying bruising patterns." He swallowed thickly as nails scraped lightly against the door.

"I thought you were a student at first, given how you looked." He continued talking until he was hoarse and exhausted. All the while the animated corpse on the other side pawed at the door, groaning in and out, useless breaths that rattled through undead lungs.

At long last the words ran dry. John hauled himself upright on shaking legs.

"Goodnight...Sherlock." He choked on the final farewell he hadn't been able to give when Sherlock had been taken from him. The creature behind the door stilled at the softly spoken words.

Silence followed John as he checked the lock on the door and climbed the stairs to the ground floor. Silence crushed him as checked the locks and barricades on the ground floor. Silence nipped at his heels as he climbed the narrow stairs and reset his trip lines. Silence tore great holes in his soul as he locked the door of 221B Baker Street behind him and stared into the empty flat.

Sleep did not come to John Watson that night.

* * *

Thank you for reading, hope I made you have a little bit of a feels. Just to clarify, this is not a oneshot. This will be a multi-chapter story. As the old cliche goes, death is only the beginning.


	2. Chapter 2

Well the utter lack of response to the first chapter of this was mildly discouraging, but I'll give another few a go anyway. Not abandoning GnG I'm just stuck on the next chapter.

* * *

It was the darkness that he became aware of first, darkness pressing in and suffocating. Though he didn't need the breath that he pulled into deflated lungs, he took it regardless, listening as the dank air groaned out of his throat.

He was sitting, slumped back against a solid surface. There was no light at all to give clue to his surroundings and his other senses rose to the challenge. Damp air, the feeling of it was close and still. The scent of mold is strong, stronger than it should be. Basement perhaps?

Confusion set in. He had no knowledge of who he was, nor how he came to be where ever he was. Slowly, body feeling strange and disconnected, he climbed to his feet. He was unsteady, adrift in the dark, unable to make sense of anything.

Noise broke through the fog of confusion. The sound was rhythmic, cadence rough and low. He only had a moment to revel in the sound that might be a voice before Hunger struck.

The Hunger ravaged him, filled him with an all-consuming Need to fill the painful emptiness within him. It drove him towards the sound and the scent of Living. Ran him into what he can now identify as a door. It mindlessly had his body clawing uselessly at the sturdy wood.

The voice on the other side of the door faltered momentarily at the noise he was making. There was a deep breath and it continued again. The words themselves were incomprehensible, meaningless noise that only meant inaccessible food. Despite that, he stored them carefully away in the blankness of his mind. Perhaps he could examine and make sense of them later.

"And so you ran out ranting about pink of all things. Really should have been a hint when you'd left your crippled potential flatmate behind." The voice droned on.

He continued pawing at the door as Hunger ripped at his insides. Flashes of brightness in his mind provided momentary distraction from the emptiness. Flickers of images, snippets of sound as the Living spoke that might, maybe, could have been memories. They were pushed aside as they hurt and the hunger won out.

Eventually the voice grew hoarse and began to waver in exhaustion.

"I shot and killed a man in cold blood that night. I kept safe a man who called himself a high functioning sociopath. Barely knew you and you'd already wormed your way in." There was a snort, "Walked away from a crime scene, giggling like nutters." The voice trailed off.

There were scraping sounds, as if the Living had stood. That his voice came from higher on the other side of the door supported that theory.

"Goodnight...Sherlock." He went still beneath the words as something in his mind flared brightly, painfully, in recognition. He still didn't understand but the feeling that he should have understood tore at him and pierced past the Hunger.

Footsteps walked away and up a set of stairs, taking the scent of Living with them. He was in a basement for sure then.

Silence echoed about the darkness as he continued to stand still as his Hunger faded into a dull want now that food was not near. Silence engulfed him as he gathered to himself the tiny flashes of memory he had just gained. Silence was broken in his mind as he listened to the voice he has so carefully tried to store into his memory.

The Living would return. The baseless knowledge was as sure as the dark and the Hunger. And so he waited.

* * *

Time passed, meaningless in the darkness. With little else to do he explored his prison. His slow, careful steps and the darkness conspired to lengthen the endeavor into an ordeal but despite frustration at his slowness he persisted. There was little else to do to keep his mind busy and he did not want to dwell upon the bright memories that made his mind hurt. He shoved aside flickers of bright light and sound and resolutely turned his attention to his surroundings.

Basement flat. Gone unused for some time. Bathroom and kitchen smelled both of stale water too long still in the pipes. No scent of Living, not even insects or mice. Nothing for them to eat after all. Only scent here was his own and that of mold and damp, old concrete. The door was locked, and he could feel several deadbolts both above and below the knob.

His own dark-clumsy steps echoed back and told him there was no carpet on top of the concrete floor. The walls were bare and windows high and boarded up so thoroughly that not even a scrap of light entered. For a moment he contemplated pulling down the boards and then decided against it. There was no point and light would make little difference to his prison. He lacked the dexterity to climb through a window anyway.

The air was cool and damp, but he felt that only distantly. His nerve endings were dead like the rest of him and soon it was likely that even that faint sensation would fade.

Footsteps coming down the stairs shattered the silence. Hunger flared in response like a blow as the scent of the Living followed the sound of its progress. Mindlessly he stumbled towards his prison door. Nails clawed uselessly at the wood and a moan rattled out of his throat.

"Morning...Sherlock." The voice paused before that second, agonizingly familiar word was spoken. He still didn't understand it, nor did he know why it sparked painful recognition. A low moan rattled out of his throat and the stillness the Living's voice had brought on faded as he continued to paw at the door.

There was a deep breath from the other side.

"Can't stay long, just, stopped by on my way out. Need to get some supplies." There was a great deal of hesitation in the voice, but that was noted and shoved aside in favor of the scent coming through the door. Healthy, tired, a hint of something familiar that was not readily identifiable, another acrid, sharp scent that triggered a warning and something sweet.

"I didn't go out at all while you were...well, never mind. I'll pop by when I get back and I'll come talk to you more tomorrow, yeah?" The Living's voice was raw and rough. Piece said and incomprehensible to the Dead on the other side of the door the other left, taking his scent and the Hunger with him.

With the temptation gone it was easy for force his body to stop moving. He stood still in the dark, hunched over and staring sightlessly at the door as his mind whirled. There was a great deal of information to sort through and try to put in cohesive order, and that even without the brightly painful flickers of memory.

Something clicked in his mind as he contemplated the other's scent. Gunpowder. The acrid, dangerous smell was gunpowder. The Living was armed then. So why merely lock him away when a single bullet would remove the threat the Living had to know that he posed?

Something in him shied away from contemplating that too deeply and his mind slipped off into the darkness and the hunger and he let himself drift.

* * *

An eternity of darkness later footsteps once again broke the monotonous silence. The Living brought his scent with him, laden with old adrenaline now. The Dead hit the door, groaning and clawing as the Hunger roared to life. He hadn't even realized he'd moved.

There was a startled exclamation from the other side. A click and a scraping sound that registered as a gun being from its holster and the safety disengaged. Fear entered the Living's scent and the adrenaline spiked high. The combination had the Dead nearly mad with Hunger.

Even as he battered uselessly at the door the scent of fear faded into nothing. There was a click again as the gun's safety was reengaged and the sound of it being put back in its holster. The fear had only been from the shock of the sound, not of the Dead, and the other trusted in the door to keep him safe.

"Guess you're getting pretty hungry in there." The voice was harsh, "Well sorry Sherlock, but I'm not going to feed your corpse." The roughness cracked a little. Silence fell as the Living turned and went up again, footsteps heavier than they had been before.

The Dead pawed at the door long after the Living's scent had faded away. Even as his body continued its futile effort his mind was racing.

The Living could have put him down. He'd heard the gun being drawn. He knew that sound, in the same place that knew that the Living would return yet again. Bright memory blinded his mind's eye and he stumbled away from the door under the unexpected onslaught. The image faded even as he grasped at it, leaving him with an image of a man with a gun, no details perceivable and familiarity eating at him. He shook it away and redirected his thoughts to the current puzzle.

Armed, the Living was armed. There was no reason for him to still be standing, so why didn't he have a bullet through his skull. Once again memory flared, not bright and hurting but soft and warm and protecting and he knew that he was in no danger from the gun that this particular Living held. Again the certainty of knowledge he should not have confused him further.

He shoved it aside for later, instead trying to figure the meaning behind at least some of the Living's words. He knew the other was speaking, knew the cadence and rhythm could only be speech, and knew that he should be able to understand. 'Sherlock', the word had been given special emphasis several times now, always directed at the door. At him perhaps? His name? Unimportant, indecipherable. More important now, what he could understand now, were tones and emotions, as they were still readable, still understandable.

He bent his mind to the memory, allowing his body to continue to paw at the door. Anger. The harshness in the Living's voice had been anger, but anger underlain with pain. The tone of the words had ended in raw, painful bitterness. Whatever the Living has said, had realized, had caused emotional pain. Why? He shifted side to side as the pieces slowly knit themselves together as he laid out what he knew so far in his shattered mind.

Facts: The Living kept him locked in the basement when the means to kill him were easily available. The Living came down, willingly, and spoke to him. There was sadness and pain in the other's voice when addressing him. The Living seemed to know his name, there was certainly a great deal of familiarity when speaking. The flashes of memory only came in some form of connection to the other.

Conclusion: The man on the other side of the door was someone who had known him before his Death. Who had cared about him. Sentiment, foolish sentiment. The knowledge brought an odd warmth and a strange easing of the constant Hunger. If only he could remember clearly...

Light flared in his mind. This time though, he did not shy away from it, but neither did he grasp at it. He merely reveled in it, let it burn through the dark in his mind. He was rewarded with a single image.

A man, Living and healthy and smiling. Short and solid with close cropped hair of dusty gold, dark eyes of hazel indigo. Warmth accompanied the memory and he knew that this was the face of the man whose presence kept pulling him from the black Hunger and crushing boredom. For just a moment he wanted something other than to sate the empty hunger within him. He wanted, needed, to hear the man's voice.

Silence mocked him. Eventually his hands fell away from the door and his body contented itself with bumping mindlessly into the barrier every few minutes. He didn't bother to try to control the action. There really was no point after all. Bored.

* * *

"Sherlock have you been at that since I left?" Footsteps followed the voice down. Now that the Dead was listening for emotion it was easy to pick out the shock in the other's tone. He scrabbled at the door again with a groan. It took effort to assert control over his numb limbs, but he did, and managed to force his body to still. Better to listen and he knew he couldn't really get at the other no matter how the Hunger clawed away at his insides.

There was a dry chuckle.

"Persistent, even Dead." Bitter amusement tainted the man's words. He shifted about on the other side of the door. It sounded as if he had sat down to lean back against the barrier.

Scent flooded though the dank basement. The Dead groaned and pressed himself against the door, drinking in the smell of life, tea, and gunpowder. The man's face flared in his mind again. Sitting in a kitchen in a cream jumper drinking tea. It was gone as quickly as it had come as the Living spoke and the Dead fell silent and still to listen.

"Sorry I haven't been down in a few days Sherlock." There was an indication of a good deal of time in the words.

"I just...well that was a bit of a wake up call you know? You attacking the door like that." The man gave a snort, and his voice turned bitter.

"Almost convinced myself that there was nothing wrong with you. That you were still just a bit sick. But no...you're properly gone and what's left would like nothing but to sink its teeth into my flesh." He fell silent, the quiet only broken by the rattling breaths pulled in by the Dead on occasion.

"God, I'm pathetic." There was self loathing in his voice, "Sitting in a basement talking to my best mate's zombified corpse." The man gave an almost hysterical bark of laughter.

"Least I'm safe from you. A proper job on those locks you did." He sighed and fell silent. For long enough that time began to lose meaning again he just sat in front of the door, quiet breathing giving the hungry Dead on the other side of the door something to focus on. His scent was overwhelming and the Dead bumped hard into the door. The Living jumped with a curse and a short, breathless laugh.

"Bored? Well I don't blame you." There were sounds of the man standing, "I'll come talk to you tomorrow Sherlock. Good night." Heavy, tired footsteps retreated up the stairs.

As the silence fell again the Dead was unable to keep a rasping snarl from escaping his throat. The sound was accompanied by a fist pounding the wall next to the door in frustration. His own actions escaped him as he mentally raged. He didn't want the man to leave! He wanted him to come back and talk to him. The man's voice was the only thing he had to alleviate the darkness and the boredom and the Hunger.

Wanted. His body stilled as he registered his own thoughts. When had he stopped thinking about the man as anything other than just a meal? Not just as the Living, not just as 'other', not just potential food but as an individual whose presence he wanted? That thought was dimmed by the knowledge that the man's life would be forfeit if the door opened. He'd regret it, but that wouldn't change what his body would do to a Living human. The Hunger was too much.

As if that was a trigger his thoughts began to swirl away as Hunger and silence crashed down on him. A groan twisted out of his throat as he succumbed to the numbing of his mind. No point in clinging to his thoughts when he was alone in the dark. The only thing that seemed to matter was the man whose face smiled in his memory. He was gone, with nothing to do but wait for his eventual return. Alone in the dark with the Hunger gnawing away at what little of his mind he had built up.

* * *

"Morning Sherlock." With the voice and the footsteps light flared in his memory. Immediately he was at the door, bumping into it in his haste. There was snort from the other side.

"Well at least you aren't clawing at it any longer." Sounds of cloth rustling and a scraping noise as the man settled onto the floor in front of the door. His scent filtered through and filled the dank black with warmth. The man took a deep breath and began to speak.

"Don't think I ever apologized for correcting you when you called us friends in front of Wilkes. Bit late now I know but I am sorry. Didn't think it'd actually hurt you like that." He paused and chuckled, "But the look on his face when you told him you'd been chatting up his secretary..." The man's warm voice, full of life and emotion and forgotten memories carried on. It was a beacon in the dark for the hungry undead on the other side of the door. He fell silent and went still to listen.

The words themselves made little sense and the images that came with them were almost as incomprehensible. It was a fast paced reel of film that battered at his mind. As with every piece of memory since his waking the flashes were loud and bright and painful. But this time he didn't shove them away, didn't pull away from them. He let them wash over him, reveling in the life they bore.

"Bit of a git you were on that case, Sherlock, letting me take the blame for your 'expert'. Left me outside the flat while you were getting yourself strangled too. Don't be surprised I noticed the bruises and the signs, just knew you better than to bother saying anything." The Dead remained silent, listening and trying not to shove away the images bursting with nigh agonizing intensity in his mind.

"And then spent the whole bloody night trying to find the right book. You know I feel asleep at work the next day because of that? First day on the job even. Can't believe Sarah kept me on after that." There was the sound of him shaking his head. His voice had grown rough, tired. A moment later there was the sound of him standing.

"I'll leave the rest for tomorrow. Not like I've anything better to do. Good night Sherlock." His footsteps retreated up the stairs, leaving a rather frustrated undead pawing at the door. The Dead didn't even try to curb the mindless impulse.

Something told him that the Living had left whatever he was talking about unfinished. It rankled, as surely as the fact that he didn't know exactly how he knew this information. Logically he knew that the man could not spend all of his time sitting in front of a door talking to the dead. The Living had to eat and sleep and take care of a body that needed each breath it drew.

Still, the man would be back. That certainty of unknown origin was still with him and not at all diminished. So he waited, slowly forcing his numb body to cease battering at the door, with nothing but confused, painful memories to try to keep the hunger at bay.

* * *

"Morning Sherlock." The warm voice was proceeded by the man's now familiar footsteps. There was a slight limp evident, but each step was steady. The limp was either in his mind or didn't cause him any sort of pain as the man trusted his weight fully to each leg. He settled in his usual place on the floor in front of the door. His scent flooded the dark, and the smell that had eluded identification earlier sparked memory in the Dead's mind. Jam. Recognition afforded him a flicker of memory of the blond man eating breakfast in a sunlit kitchen.

The Dead savored the scent of tea and jam and gunpowder and didn't notice that his Hunger had eased as the Living began to speak.

"I'd like to say that I couldn't believe you'd booked the three of us for that blasted circus performance, but really I'm just surprised I hadn't seen it coming." He rambled on as the Dead listened to the incomprehensible speech with rapt attention and let memories flare bright and painful in his mind.

A woman alongside the blond man in a place all of red and gold and deep shadows. A man in chains with a massive crossbow pointed at his heart.

"And then it took Sarah to notice that Soo Lin had started her translation." The man snorted, "Wish I could have been in your head right then mate." Warm amusement filled his tone as he continued speaking.

The man and the woman going missing. A dark tunnel, taunts and fighting. That crossbow and the man tied to a chair, the woman at his side, unimportant.

"You were almost late in getting there, but it worked out in the end so I can't be too angry with you over it." Amusement tinged the man's voice.

"You figured out what the treasure was, and amazingly enough Sarah didn't hate me. Only dark spot was that woman, Chen, managing to get away." He continued rambling, but the Dead did not feel quite as compelled to listen. The memory flashes were duller, few and far between. Safe and almost domestic.

"Goodnight Sherlock." The final words before the man retreated to his safe haven and away from the Dead. Time felt like it passed far too quickly while the Living was speaking to him. However, it was a needed distraction from the Hunger and the boredom and so he listened to the man retreating with something that might have been approaching regret.

That faint limp captured his attention yet again. The sound reminded him of long past pain and the memory danced on the edge of the shadows of his fractured mind. With a rattling hiss of frustration he chased after the reason the limp was significant. Images flared, the blond man leaving behind a cane and running after him with no pain. Psychosomatic limp. The man had spoken of the event that first night of his waking.

He went still at that thought, going after it and with a great deal of concentration brought to the forefront his first memories. The man had begun speaking to him the moment he had drawn his first rattling breath upon waking in the dark. He pulled up the scattered memories and meaningless words he had carefully stored away. Images accompanied the sound of speech in his mind and something clicked into place. There was a chronological progression to the events taking place in his memories.

The implication rocked him back on his heels and a sharp breath rattled into his lungs. He was being told of his life before his Death, a life shared with the man on the other side of the door. Despite not being able to properly understand the words still, the memories were eloquent enough to tell him that this man had been important to him.

The craving for the Living's company flared as sharp and strong as his ever present Hunger. However, the dark and boredom held sway for what felt like an eternity before familiar footsteps broke the silence.

* * *

"Morning Sherlock." Even as his hunger flared at the scent of the living something else within the Dead relaxed at the familiar footsteps and the warm, though tired, voice. The man might be giving in to dangerous sentiment but it was appreciated...as much as the Dead could appreciate anything. As if in response to that odd thought the hunger eased a fraction. Interesting. He didn't have time to dwell on this development as the man settled into his usual place and began to speak.

"I was terrified when I saw that explosion on the news. All I could think of was that you might have been hurt and the last thing I'd done was storm out angry with you." There was regret in his voice and the Dead pressed against the door to listen, not bothering to draw useless breaths.

The man rambled on as was his want. Occasionally a word triggered something like recognition. A place or person or event would be mentioned and what it was attached to would emerge from the dark realm of his mind, image attaching to the word.

A man, not the blond, in their flat. He was asking for something. His face brought a painful surge of familiarity that the Dead shied away from.

A pink phone, five pips, a woman crying on the other end. A pair of white trainers.

An inconspicuous face that sparked hot rage. The dead-eyed image of the man and his lilting voice were swept away in a flood of other images.

A car stained with blood. A man's voice, terrified on the other end of the pink phone, the sounds of traffic around him. Four pips.

A woman on the telly. Another woman's voice on the pink phone, scared, old. Defective. Three pips.

The woman on the telly dead in the morgue. A cat and cameras and the blond man laughing. He had been wrong of course, but he had Looked and that had been the important part.

The old woman on the phone. A warning rushed out of his own throat. An explosion and then silence.

"Not much cop after all, this caring lark." He snorted, "I wanted to deck you for that." The words were followed by a sigh.

"I get it now, I really do. If you care too much...well you lock your dying best mate in the basement and come down every day and talk to his shambling remains like a nutter." He gave a short, bitter laugh.

"And on top of playing the Game I was looking into whoever killed Mycroft's man. Git." That last word was an insult of some type, but it was said almost like an endearment. A heavy sigh sounded and he stood.

"Hate to cut it short, Sherlock, but I've got to make a supply run tomorrow. Won't be back till evening...Not that it matters to you." He started off up the stairs. Halfway up he paused.

"Goodnight Sherlock." The Dead listened as the Living left. There was hesitance over those last words, as if they were getting harder to say.

He shook the thought off in favor of reviewing the memories he had seen throughout the day. Bright and vivid and too painful to look at closely. They were disjointed still and he could not hold them steady long enough to glean their full detail. They continued to be linearly chronological, but he knew he was missing a great deal of meaning not being able to fully understand the man.

He was beginning to pick up a word or two and properly process and understand the English language. Clearly he understood on some level or the memories would not come as they did. He was sure they were corresponding perfectly with the man's words. So, his conscious mind was still having trouble with language, yet subconsciously he was following along. The realization made a certain amount of sense. His mind was barely able to handle mere glimpses of his old memories. No doubt fully understanding everything being spoken, remembering every detail all at once, would be beyond painful, perhaps even detrimental to the mental progress he was making.

Without warning Hunger flared. It bit deep into his core, gnawing away at his thoughts. He gave in. There was no reason to fight it, not with his distraction gone for the time being. With a groan his body battered at the door under the Hunger. Pointless, useless, mindless.

* * *

"Huh, you were calm enough yesterday. Hunger getting the better of you again?" Bitter amusement filled the usually warm voice. The Living's scent proceeded his limping footsteps. Tea and jam and gunpowder flooded the darkness. The mindless Hunger eased, just a fraction but it was enough.

The Dead froze in response, bracing himself against the door on splayed hands. The Hunger should have increased exponentially with the scent of uninfected Living flesh so close. To have it abate, even a little, meant that he was slowly but surely putting this man out of the category of things-to-eat. It went against everything he thought he knew, everything that half formed knowledge said he knew. Exactly what he knew about his state of being was fluid, at best.

The familiar sound of the man sliding down into his usual seated position in front of the door interrupted his thoughts.

"Probably shouldn't have left off last night with how irritated I'd been with you..." He trailed off a moment and sighed.

"Not that it actually matters. You don't understand me anyway." Another sigh and he started speaking again, words sparking memories.

An image on the phone, a river. A body, strangled by giant hands. Stars. A painting and a child's voice.

Two pips.

An interrogation with a woman. Moriarty. The word was understood and sent rage rippling through the Dead. He had no time to dwell on it before the images continued on.

"Finally made it to the tracks where Mycroft's bloke died, figured out why there was so little blood only to have you show up and ask what took so long." He snorted, "Guess you just wanted to see how well I did on my own. Nice to know I didn't completely disappoint you." The continued and the Dead remembered.

The pink phone held in long fingered hands he knew where his. The pool where the boy who had owned the white trainers had died. The blond man stepping out when another, any other, had been expected.

"The look on your face when you saw me. Thought I'd ripped the heart right out of your chest." The man's voice was raw, and not merely from speaking so long. He snorted.

"And then you were so angry when you realized what was going on." Images and sounds came fast and hard now, a whirlwind of stimulation.

Explosives strapped to the blond man beneath his heavy coat. The innocuous man from the lab, now expensively dressed. His face twisted up in dark mirth, lilting voice echoing with madness. Moriarty.

Red dots playing over the blond man's face as he attacked Moriarty. Stalemate even as the madman left. The bomb vest was torn from the blond man by pale hands that shook. Relief turned to fear as Moriarty returned. A gun being pointed at the fallen vest.

A phone call. The madman's humor dropped away like a flipped switch.

He left. They returned to the flat, relief and exhaustion all intermingling.

Silence fell as the man on the other side of the door came to an apparent end of his speaking.

"Nearly died that night, the both of us. Never did get to tell you that I hadn't been afraid for my life, not really, just for yours. Not all that many people to miss me after all, didn't really have that much to live for 'cept your Work." He trailed off and snorted, "Don't even have now what I did then. Talking to a bloody corpse in the basement..." He stood and turned to go.

"Night Sherlock." He left, hollow tone and heavy limp following him up.

The Dead still didn't move, staring sightlessly at the closed door. He had felt emotions there, attached to the images and sounds. Few of them, and muted and distant, but undeniable. It was enough to finally convince him that his own mind was supplying the images, that they were true memories.

Those had been his hands holding the pink phone. Long and pale and very much alive. He remembered the weight of the explosive covered vest, the heft of the gun as he pointed it at Moriarty.

_"Catch you later." The feel of the words as they thrummed out of his throat._

_"No you won't." The madman's mocking reply._

With a rattling hiss he pounded against the door. There was more to why the madman sparked such rage within him. That did not feel to be the end of it. But try as he might to recall further events on his own his mind remained stubbornly silent.

He hisses again in frustration. He could recall the name of a man that had clearly been an enemy, but not the name of the man who had been his friend. Nor could he understand his own even though the blond spoke it on a regular basis. Yet again he focused his scattered memory on the blond man, focusing, trying to remember.

The images that came this time were not peaceful. He saw the Living as he had been at the Pool. Dark eyes going hard, face settled into grim determination. Soldier. Captain. The correction was whispered through the jumble of his thoughts. Bombs and guns and the threat of imminent death were not new to this man.

At least now he had something other than the blond man to call the soldier. Warmth filled him again as he contemplated the Living, shoving back the numbness and the Hunger. The soldier had been more angry than afraid, and that fear had clearly not been only for himself. This man had been willing to die for him, had already killed for him.

He latched onto that thought and remembered an old man, a cabbie. Two bottles each with a single pill. Bringing the pill to his lips, sure he was right. A gunshot ringing out and the cabbie dropping to the floor.

Realizing that the soldier, whom he had known less than a day, had killed for him.

For a moment he allowed the elation that he was remembering things the soldier had spoken of in the past to wash over him. Then his Hunger rose and drowned out his thoughts beneath a sea of mindless emptiness.

* * *

Footsteps broke through his body's incessant, bored, pawing at the door. He spared a fleeting thought to the state his fingers must be in and forced himself to still.

"Morning Sherlock." The soldier sounded tired, resigned. There was a bitter undertone to usual scent.

"Well, I say morning but the sun won't be up for hours yet. Couldn't sleep. Kept dreaming about the Pool..." He trailed off as he settled onto the floor and leaned back against the door.

"Might not be the best idea for my sanity to keep talking to you like this. I keep forgetting you aren't up there with me. Turn to say something to you only to remember all over again you're down here...and want to eat me. I should probably stop. Should probably leave and go find other survivors..." yet again the words faded away.

The Dead groaned in protest. What of that he understood told him the soldier was talking about leaving. He thumped against the door, no weight and little strength behind the action but the Living still jumped with a curse. A mirthless laugh rang out.

"Don't want me to leave then? Well I can't blame you. If you were still aware you'd be going positively mad with boredom by now." The soldier's voice grew rough as he spoke.

"Well, you're someone to talk to at any rate." The words were almost a whisper and a moment later he began his narrative again. The Dead relaxed into the words, letting images and sounds and vibrant memories play out in his mind.

A series of people, most of them quickly dismissed and unimportant. A laptop, the soldier typing away about their cases. Flashes of cameras and crowds as people took note.

A man in their flat, fat, right sleeve of an internet porn addict and breathing of an undiagnosed heart condition. The case that came with him, 7 at best. The soldier was sent out with a laptop. Watching through the web-cam in nothing but a sheet. The hikers cause of death was obvious.

Men in suits, the palace, the soldier sharing his laugh that he was still in nothing but a sheet. The familiar face of the man that had asked about his missing employee. A reprimand and photographs.

The Woman. There was a shock as the Dead remembered her. She had pictures that he needed to retrieve. Memories flowed smoothly now, not merely flashes of his past. Sound and sight and smell and feel all bled together. They hurt, and were nearly as confusing as his first flashes of memory had been. But he did not retreat from the pain. With a monumental effort he focused on the soldier's voice, letting it mute the chaos in his mind.

"Still can't imagine how you thought your mugged priest act was going to fool her. Not as if you could have kept up injured innocent for long..." There was amusement in his voice and the Dead saw what the soldier did not say.

_"Punch me in the face." A shocked look from the soldier at his words. _

_"What?" _

_"I said, punch me in the face, didn't you hear me?" He remembered the feel of his impatience. _

_"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when I'm talking to you but usually it's just subtext." The soldier's voice was flat on his response. A punch was thrown, responded to. The soldier had him in a headlock a moment later. _

_"Okay, that's enough." The words were difficult to force out pas the soldier's arm, but he wasn't afraid. _

_"You forget I was a soldier, Sherlock. I killed people!" _

_"You were a doctor!" _

_"I had bad days!" _

The man had let him go after that. Memory fractured again.

He would have liked to have had time to dwell on the thing he had just remembered. Clear, in proper order, **understood**, memory. However, the man, soldier, doctor, was moving on and he didn't want to miss anything. There would be time enough to examine those thoughts later.

Images and sounds flashed in time once again in time to the sound of the man's voice. The memories were broken again, it seemed his mind could only handle such perfect clarity for a short time.

The Woman, naked, trying, succeeding, to throw him off his Game. His coat over her svelte form. Men bursting in, her phone in his hands. A needle and the return of his coat much later in the night. A moan on his phone, meaningless messages from her that got under his skin

The doctor fell quiet.

"I need to go and see if I can't get at least some form of sleep. I'll be back down later. Or tomorrow...not like you know the difference." That last was muttered and bitter. The man stood, ignoring the protesting groan from the Dead behind him. He said nothing in parting.

Dim, distant pain blossomed from somewhere within the Dead as the lack of his friend's usual farewell. That though froze him, not a single muscle twitching so much as a fraction of an inch. It was dangerous, that thought. Wrong and mad and dangerous.

He could not afford to think of the Living as anything other than a threat or a meal. Yet even as the mindless hunger of his state denied it; the part of him that was his memories and beginning to remember the person he had been welcomed this change in mindset.

As if to remind him of what he truly was the Hunger roared within him, opening like an abyss, black and gaping. In defense he conjured the doctor in his mind, smiling face and steadfast presence.

_"__I don't have any friends. I just have one." _What he knew to be his own voice echoed through his mind. A memory that the doctor had not spoken of yet. Nothing but the words and a feeling of relief came. The Hunger and the darkness abated, leaving his mind clear.

He didn't bother to move as he thought. He felt no physical discomfort in standing, even as hunched and unsteady as he knew his posture had become. His body meant nothing so long as his mind was his own. And it seemed that the more he remembered, the more he **thought **the more of himself he regained. Even if he still wasn't quite sure who he was just yet.

More important than that vague thought was that he had remembered an event with normal, clear memory. More important than that even, he had understood every word spoken in that memory. Even if his comprehension of English was spotty while the doctor was talking, this revelation told him that he was at least getting better at comprehension.

The theory that he did at least subconsciously understand and remember these events was also proven by that memory. His mind was healing as he thought, as he forced it to work. Or perhaps not healing, but merely building new pathways through the dead tissue in his brain.

As the Dead were not supposed to have much, if any, in the way of higher brain function it was impossible to know why he could think, could remember. He was unique, so far as he knew. But then, so too were his circumstances. What the doctor was doing, speaking to him like he was still Living and cognizant had not been done before, not for this long, and certainly not with a Dead so easily bored.

He shouldn't know this. The doctor had yet to say anything of the Dead, not even a hint of it. So that was knowledge that came a great deal later. He tried to pursue the thought, tried to recall more of the world what he now was. Blackness broke over him in a wave of mindless Hunger. No time to draw on the doctor's face and only a moment of regret and irritation that he allowed himself to get so far sidetracked before he thought of nothing but his Hunger.

* * *

Footsteps penetrated the black fog. His body hit the door with a hungry moan before he could check the reaction to the scent of Living. There was a startled movement from the other side of the door and the soldier blistered the air with curses. The Dead fought to get back under control. It took a great deal of effort for even as the presence of the doctor calmed him, the actuality of Living flesh so close nearly drove him mad.

"I'd blame that on boredom if there was anything left of your mind, Sherlock. But as you're a mindless zombie that must be the hunger." Despite the spike of fear of a moment before the doctor's voice was steady.

"If you're going t keep attacking the door like that I'm just going to go back upstairs." The Living's voice was resigned, and touch with mild, bitter amusement.

The Dead heard, and understood enough to know that the doctor had threatened to leave. With a rattling hiss he forced his body to still. It took what felt like far too long for stiff muscles to respond but he dropped his arms to his sides and froze in place.

There was silence from the other side of the door for a moment. The doctor cursed again.

"Okay, maybe it is boredom. You never did anything else normally, so why would you turn out to be a normal zombie..." The man snorted and sat down in front of the door as usual.

"Guess the next real event would be Christmas...when She left you her phone and faked her death." The Dead remembered. Bright lights and music and company. A phone in his stocking. Her phone. A call and a mutilated body on a slab. He'd been convinced of her death, spent the next several months moping. Then she had returned and it was shocking and miraculous. But she'd brought trouble with her and her game with him had not been over.

Flirting, a check of her pulse. A code that was not a code and an airplane full of the dead. A reprimand. He recognized the familiar man now. His brother, the man's name eluded him but it wasn't important.

The lock on the phone and a mousey woman's voice saying that people do silly things. 'I am Sher-Locked'. The Woman had fallen into her own game. Love was a detriment.

"I told you she'd gone into witness protection in America. That she was fine. I lied Sherlock. Mycroft and I both lied. She's dead. I know it doesn't matter now but I'm sorry for that." There was a pause, "Though come to think of it that was really the only time I'd ever successfully lied to you. Ever." Another pause.

"She's alive isn't she? Bloody he—that's why you vanished for a week. You git." The words were harsh but there was amusement in the tone. The Dead remembered.

All encompassing robes. A sword in his hand and the Woman kneeling before him. A final text was sent. His pocket moaned and they battled their way out of the camp. Unless she had perished when the world crumbled then she was still alive. That knowledge was important, but far less important than the here and now and the man on the other side of the door. Or the fact that he had just, once again, remembered something the doctor had not spoken of.

"Wish you could tell me if I'm right or not." He paused and snorted, "But you can't and it really doesn't matter all that much. Goodnight Sherlock." The doctor stood and left, silence following him up the stairs.

This last set of memories hadn't hurt much in comparison to those in the beginning. They were getting ever smoother, ever more clear. It should have been unnerving to realize that there was a lifetime before his time with the doctor but he was just glad to be able to remember anything.

He whirled back on that thought. Glad, happy, something other than boredom, hunger and want. Emotions the Dead should not have, should not be capable of. Happiness and boredom anyway, the Hunger was expected.

Yet again, though, no one had tried this. No one had tried to communicate like this to the Dead. No one had thought to speak to the Dead for this long, slowly building up language and memories.

His comprehension had nearly reached the point that he could consciously understand the doctor's words. He was certainly capable now of picking out single words and simple phrases. He remembered Irene Adler, remembered Moriarty's name and involvement thus far, remembered Mycroft's name. Still, even with the new clarity of his memories they felt slightly disconnected. While he felt the emotions they were muted, more as if he was watching a movie of another man's life.

Except for the doctor. He was as real and solid as the rest of his memories were not. That though, could be attributed to the man's frequent presence; to the fact that all of his memories began with the former army doctor. The fact that he couldn't remember the man's name, nor his own, irritated him. He reveled in the emotion.

That was his downfall as the Hunger rose within him the moment his mind slowed. Black, mindless Hunger ate at him, tore through him. He surrendered to it, confident in the knowledge that when the doctor returned he would be able to break free of the black fog.

* * *

Familiar footsteps drove him to the door. He checked himself before slamming against the portal though and was rather proud of his restraint. He did not manage to stop the hungry moan that tore from his throat.

"Well at least you're not attacking the door this morning Sherlock." The doctor didn't come all the way down the stairs.

"I have to go out today, won't be back 'til evening probably. Running a bit low on food and such." He paused.

"If I'm not too tired I'll come down and talk to you. The Baskerville case shouldn't take too long to go through." His tone was easy, open. The Dead understood enough to know that the doctor was not staying now, but would return. He stopped his moaning and held his body still.

There was silence from the other side of the door for a moment.

"I don't know whether the moaning or the silence is worse, Sherlock." There was bitter amusement in the tone. The Living said nothing else as he retreated back up the stairs.

Listening carefully the Dead heard two sets of door open and close. One at the top of the stairs, thin, flimsy, but he heard locks slide home. The other heavier, louder, likely the door to outside. The man was clearly not taking any chances with the ravenous Dead locked in the basement.

Perversely the animated corpse felt approval over the doctor's vigilance and caution. What the Living was doing by keeping the Dead was stupid, but at least he was taking the necessary precautions to keep himself safe. It would do the man no good if the Dead somehow got free. The doctor's life would still, even now, be forfeit. The Hunger was too strong still and the man would not be able to put that necessary bullet through his skull.

With a groan he shrank back away from the door. Carefully, clumsily, and mostly to see if he could; he eased himself into seated position next to it. The simple action took what felt like a full minute when it should have taken seconds. Muscles tightened and creaked in protest. His entire body was numb, unresponsive and jerky.

Memory flickered. He was running alongside the doctor. His body working in smooth, perfect, efficiency. He had been graceful. His body had been quick and agile.

With a rattled sigh he leaned his head back against the wall. No matter what happened he knew he would never get that elegant economy of motion back. He knew the way the Dead moved, clumsy, jerky, slow. He could hear his lack of coordination in his shuffling steps and feel it in the stiffness of his limbs.

His mind went taut and snapped in on itself as he realized that this was the first time he had contemplated his future. It would be bleak of course, there was no happy existence for the Dead. However, it was not his potential actual future that was important now, but the fact that his mind had progressed enough to contemplate its eventually.

Unfortunately, as with every emotional response thus far, the momentary elation faded away into cold, dark, Hungry reality. For now, he was oddly content to remain where he was. Even if he could figure a way out he would hopefully be able to ignore it. There was a flicker through his mind, bright keys, hidden somewhere in the flat. He shied away from the memory and it obligingly sank back into his subconscious without imparting any further information.

It was a bit of a shock to realize that he didn't want out at all. As with everything else he cataloged the thought until it made sense. Hunger wouldn't kill him, thirst wouldn't kill him. It was safer for the doctor, for his friend, if he stayed where he was. Besides, he'd be bored out of his mind out in the world with no mental stimulation. At least here he didn't have to worry about getting a bullet through his skull, and the boredom was often alleviated by the doctor's willingness to tell him of his, of their, history.

* * *

The upper door opened and heavy footsteps descended.

"Sherlock! I'm back early." The doctor sounded cheerful as he came and settled in front of the door. There was a sound of tearing plastic and the scent of something sweet.

"Found a couple of packs of biscuits from before the plague in a store room." Still cheerful as sounds of him eating one came through the door, "Been a while since I had anything sweet like this."

There were sounds of him eating a few more. The Dead was again proud of his self restraint. He hadn't even tried to get up as the doctor came down. The groan he was unable to stifle was ignored.

"Right, so where was I...ah, the Hound case." He snorted, "You were trying to cut your nicotine addiction by going cold turkey. Practically mauled Henry when you got him to smoke. Nearly didn't even take the case until he'd spoken oddly and it caught your attention." He continued, occasionally pausing to eat another biscuit while the Dead listened and remembered.

_"__Killed by an enormous hound..." _The words rippled through his mind and he relinquished himself to the flow of memories.

The images now were not quite so fractured. They were linked together, not perfectly flowing but not completely separate.

Dartmoor. A secret military base. A hollow filled with mist and a feeling of terror.

He'd snapped at the doctor later, distrusting of his own eyes and taking the fear out on one person who wouldn't leave.

"I don't have any friends. I've just got one." the aforementioned words fell into their proper place in his mental time line. The doctor had forgiven him, and given him a clue.

Not hound, but H.O.U.N.D.

The base again. Watching the doctor in a drug induced panic shy away from nothing.

"Yet another of those things I wish I couldn't believe you did. But again, I'd be lying. Git." The narrative and flow of images broke off a moment under the mild reprimand.

"Least you apologized and there wasn't ever a repeat." Amusement in the doctor's voice and he continued on.

H.O.U.N.D. Hallucinatory fear inducing anti-personnel chemical warfare. It was supposed to have been abandoned. It wasn't.

The hollow, drugged mists foiling their senses. A hound, real and feral. Gun fire as it died. The perpetrator of the horror fleeing. Explosions and the knowledge that the man was dead.

Silence fell over them both as the doctor stopped talking. After a while the man stood. "I'll be back down tomorrow, Sherlock. Goodnight." The man's mood was low. The Dead knew that it had nothing to do with what had just been told to him. The reason for the man's mood must then be something that was coming next in the narration of their shared history. Try as he might nothing of those memories came but for a vague sense of unease.

He shoved that from his mind. Nothing he could do about it now but wait and think.

The doctor had forgiven him even after being used as an experiment in the labs. Had stayed with him even after being yelled at and practically told that he wasn't a friend. Had let him apologize, and had accepted it. Rather remarkable in his mildly untrustworthy opinion of people.

Then of course, the man himself was an enigma. Doctor, soldier. Warrior, healer. Protector and cold blooded killer. A proclaimed man of peace that delighted in the adrenaline and danger of the chase. Considering how the man had hid his blood lust beneath woolen jumpers, he was a literal wolf in sheep's clothing.

Throughout all of his memories the doctor was underestimated at every turn. People barely gave him a second glance before dismissing him as unimportant. Few saw how important he really was, and fewer still saw what lurked beneath the placid exterior.

With a rattled groan he hauled himself to his feet. He nearly fell twice before slowing down enough to be sure of where his body was in the dark. His spatial awareness of his own body was completely shot without touch or sight. However, he had little else but time and so gave himself wholly over to the effort. Within minutes he was on his feet. Unsteadily he began to explore the flat yet again. He had gotten his mind working by thinking, perhaps he could at least grow used to the stiff slowness of his limbs by using them.

He counted himself fortunate that there was no furniture in the abandoned flat. As it was he still ran into doors and walls and counters in the pitch black. Touch was completely gone now, except for deep sensation when he hit against something hard and even that held no pain for him.

* * *

"Sherlock?" The sound of the doctor's voice drove him toward the door as the Hunger flared. He wrestled it back and checked himself. He still bumped into the door as he misjudged the distance but as least he didn't hit it like a ravenous animal.

"Got bored standing by the door did you?" The doctor didn't sound the least bit concerned as he came and sat in front of the door.

"Can't say I blame you. Must be bored out of your mind in there with nothing to do..." He trailed off and sighed.

"Why do I keep doing this to myself, Sherlock?" And to you, for that matter. It would be a mercy to put a bullet through you." The Dead gave a rattling hiss in protest. The sound was quite loud enough to penetrate the door. There was a strained chuckle.

"Guess that's a no then?" The mirth in his voice was bitter, "Well that's no surprise. Even Dead you're stubborn." The Doctor fell quiet for a moment. He shifted against the door.

"But that thing I'm talking to isn't really you is it? Its got your face, your body, but it's not you anymore. You're gone...for real this time, no chance of coming back." His voice was hollow.

"I don't know if I can go through this next bit, Sherlock. Don't think I can relive that on top of this." The doctor's head thunked back against the door.

"You're a right git, you know that mate? Leaving me like this not once but twice. Got me half expecting another miracle. You reappeared after two bloody years with all of us thinking you were dead." There was anger creeping into his voice. The Dead stayed completely silent. Even without the usual narrative images were beginning to flicker through his mind.

Moriarty. A trial. Not guilty.

False identities. Richard Brook. Rich Brook. Riechen Bach.

A code and snipers and the doctor in danger.

"Didn't bloody well stop to think that I could have helped. No, you had to do it all on your own." The doctor's anger was plain to hear now. He stood, and began to pace. He wasn't limping.

"Had to let us, me, think you were dead so you could go running after Moriarty's people. Didn't even occur to you that the bastard might have faked his own death just as you did." He paused a moment, "You know, I could forgive you everything. I did forgive you for leaving, and you deserved that punch I gave you. But I couldn't forgive that you made me watch. You tried to make me doubt the one person in my life that really bloody mattered. And for what?!" His volume spiked into a shout.

Memory flared. A roof top. A phone call. One final play in the game before it was taken off the public board.

"For nothing! Moriarty didn't die, he kept replacing the men you took out. And when you finally realized and came home the world went to hell in a bleeding hand basket not a month later! Probably on Moriarty's dime too! What was the point of any of it Sherlock?!" The Dead man's name was screamed at the door, filled with rage and pain. Like a nail being driven home or the final piece of a puzzle being slotted into place something within the Dead's mind clicked.

Sherlock, that was his name, Sherlock Holmes...The name so painfully spoken by one rather tortured John Watson. He reeled away from the door and nearly fell as his mind flooded with memories. All the fractured pieces connected into a smooth flow that began and ended with John.

He remembered now, remembered the smug look on Moriarty's face as the madman shot himself to force his opponent to jump. Remembered the haunted, broken look on John's face as he spread his arms and let his body fall. Remembered two years of loneliness and fear and grim determination. Remembered how much it hurt when he realized Moriarty still alive. Remembered returning home to 221B Baker Street, to John, and being punched in the face before the doctor collapsed at his feet in a breakdown of relief.

They had had a scant month of peace, of attempting to fit back together. Then the world exploded and people started dropping like flies, only for their corpses to rise up and devour the living. John was likely correct that Moriarty had something to do with the whole mess. Though clearly no one knew quite as much about the Dead as they thought they did.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was devoid of the rage of merely moments before. He actually sounded concerned.

If his body had still carried the reflex Sherlock would have snorted. Of course John was concerned. Clearly he still bore some lingering hope that there was something left of his flatmate in the Dead. Stupid sentiment, no matter that he was right about it.

Despairing at the stiffness of his diaphragm, Sherlock inflated his lungs in a rattling inhale. A moment later he let it out in a groan. The sounds seemed to satisfy John as there was a sigh and the sound of him sliding down in front of the door. The man gave a mirthless little laugh.

"And now I feel badly for screaming at a corpse. Bloody hell Sherlock, I'm officially losing it." John sounded hollow and broken. It took a great deal of self control for Sherlock to remain silent. John could not know that his undead flatmate had regained much of his mind. The doctor would try to open the door and Sherlock had no confidence in his ability to control his Hunger.

Silence stretched between them and Sherlock found himself losing track of time in the dark. When John finally moved it startled a rattling hiss from his numb lips. The doctor ignored the sound as he stood.

"Sorry Sherlock, but I'm not going to go through that one." The man walked away, limping heavily up the stairs. Halfway up he paused.

"Goodnight Sherlock." The words were barely a whisper and if the Dead hadn't been listening for they would have been lost to the black.

_'Goodnight John.' _The words whispered through Sherlock's mind as he listened to John ascend the remainder of the steps and close and lock the upper door.

Yet again the Dead was left alone in the silent dark. Hunger flared, and where before he would have let it take him, Sherlock fought back with a snarl. He would wait for John to return, and he would be himself and aware when the man did so. He could do no less.


	3. Chapter 3

For an indeterminate amount of time after John left, Sherlock stood still in the dark. Even with the memories of his life thus far with John regained, his mind was still fractured. He needed to catalog the damage. Needed to rebuild the broken, crumbled walls of his mind palace. Everything else could wait until he knew what he had lost and confirmed what he had to work with.

What he found was interesting. His memories since meeting John were perfect. All the information he had acquired in their cases, all the knowledge and mental skills were whole and sound and stored neatly away. Considering the number of cases they had shared a great deal of his knowledge was still intact.

However, the rest of the damage was only too easy to see. There was a great, gaping void of nothing where his life before John should have been. Bit of memory floated about, tethered by what pieces of his past he had mentioned to John.

Drug addict. John's face that first night in the flat when he'd realized that the drugs bust wasn't completely without warrant.

Mummy Holmes. Mentioned by Mycroft after the killing of the cabbie.

Smaller fragments, nothing whole, that Sherlock carefully reined in and tethered. There was far too little left to allow anything to drift away. He recalled almost nothing of his childhood, almost nothing of his time at university, and had only the knowledge that he had been an addict at one point.

He felt the loss of his memories keenly. More painful. Though was the knowledge that had been lost to the void. He could, if given the opportunity, regain much of it. But that would mean leaving the basement, and despite now knowing where he'd hidden the keys he would not risk harming John.

Thinking of the doctor brought warmth and an easing of his ever present hunger. Not much, but it was enough. It was unsurprising that he had latched onto John's presence as he had. The man was the only source of anything different in his black basement prison. The only distraction he had from the Hunger and the Boredom.

He shoved the thought of his Hunger aside before it could overwhelm him. Carefully he turned his attention back to his mind palace and continued the careful work of reorganizing broken memories. Finding places to store his fragments, and fortifying everything that was Sherlock and John.

"Morning Sherlock." John's voice startled him out of the reconstruction of his mind. His body gave a low groan and started for the door. Sherlock checked the impulse, managing to stop himself before he ran into the barrier. He held himself still, listening to Johns steps and reveling in the comforting scent of gunpowder and tea.

"Just letting you know I'm going on a supply run. If I get back early enough I'll tell you about the last few weeks, yeah?" Piece spoken, the doctor hesitated a moment before retreating up the stairs. Locks clicked into place behind him.

_Be careful, John. _The words in Sherlock's mind were accompanied vocally by a quiet moan. He knew that John was fully capable of taking care of himself, especially now that he didn't have to watch out for anyone else. Still, it didn't stop the worry that he might not return. That Sherlock might be left alone in the dark with nothing but the Hunger eating away at his mind while his body slowly rotted around him.

That thought spurred movement. Sherlock shuffled away from the door and paused. Memory told him where he had hidden the keys to the locks on the door, but without his sense of touch, getting them in the pitch dark would be difficult. So, he needed light. Hopefully his eyes still worked. He shoved that thought aside as unimportant; he'd know the answer to the question soon regardless.

The windows were boarded, but it would take mere moments to pull the boards down. However, John might notice their lack from outside, and he would certainly notice the light filtering through beneath the door. The latter could be fixed, the former could not.

Or he could try the light switch. The water was working still, he'd heard it rushing through the pipes. That, and John did not smell like a man who had gone weeks without bathing. So there was a faint chance that the electricity still worked as well. It would be the best case scenario. He could turn it off quickly enough when John came back down.

Sherlock's hand brushed the wall at the proper height next to the door until he encountered the proper resistance. He paused. Was there even a bulb in the socket? The question was brushed away. He would know momentarily. Decision made, he still hesitated. So long as he was still in the dark it was possible to pretend that there was nothing wrong with him. Foolish, to try to not acknowledge what he had become, but John would say it was human of him.

That thought strengthened his resolve. If he could face and accept what he now was he had a better chance of not hurting John come the unlikely event that he left the basement. Even after he retrieved the keys from their hiding place Sherlock had no desire to use them. Safer for John that the Dead stay imprisoned.

Sherlock focused again on the dull feeling of hard plastic beneath his hand. With a deep, rattling breath he flipped the switch. For a moment he was worried that his eyes were damaged as the blackness lightened but he couldn't see. It took a full minute for him to realize that at some point he'd closed his eyes in the dark. With a snort at his own idiocy Sherlock opened his eyes, only to snap them closed and to swipe the switch as the light bombarded him with needles of pain.

_Light sensitive. Should have realized. _However, he now knew his eyes still worked. That brief second had been enough for him to get a momentary image of the room. His vision had been blurred, but that could have been due to pain and photon shock rather than ocular deterioration.

It would be necessary then to readjust his eyes to light. With one hand on the wall Sherlock shuffled towards where he knew the bathroom was. Turn the light on and mostly close the door. Open the door bit by bit as he could handle the level of light. Then try the main light again.

Sherlock hesitated yet again after locating the bathroom light switch. There was a mirror here. Thankfully he knew his eyes were already closed and he had no intention of opening them. He had no desire to see himself and there was no reason to torture his eyes just yet.

He flipped the switch. With a pop that almost made him jump bulbs blew, but the light pressing like a physical thing against his eyelids assured him that at least one of bulbs was working. Without opening his eyes he backed out of the bathroom, slowly, carefully pulling the door closed until it hit dully against his fingers still on the door frame. He slid the digits out from between frame and door and turned, blindly retreating across the flat.

Yet again, Sherlock hesitated before rallying himself with a rattling hiss. It wouldn't make any difference if he could actually see his own undead body. It was illogical and highly annoying that there was a part of him that was still insisting that the situation wouldn't be real if he couldn't see it.

Slowly he opened his eyes. The faint light was painful for a moment but quickly became bearable as his unused retinas became accustomed to the stimulus. He stared, unmoving, not even bothering to draw breath as he took in the world with his eyes for the first time in what was probably weeks.

Colored blurs resolved into shapes and it took his sensory deprived brain a moment to interpret the light pattern thrown across the room through the partially open door. Despite that minor cognitive problem his vision was remarkably clear. Apparently keeping his eyes closed had done a great deal to preserve the delicate tissue.

Relief surged through him, strong enough that he slumped back against the door. The depth of the emotion shocked Sherlock. He had been entirely unaware that he had harbored the fear of being blind until it was proven that he could still see. However, he didn't dwell on it as he'd noticed something interesting about his vision.

As his body moved his mind did not keep up with the changing visual input as the world blurred. It went still and resolved into clarity again as he stopped moving. Quick movement might be difficult for his eyes to track, then. Not that such a thing was likely to be an issue.

Slowly, giving time for his mind to catch up with the visual stimulus, he looked about the flat. Other than the boards on the windows it was exactly the same as it was in his memories before his self imposed imprisonment. Barren, dull, boring. But he could **see**. Drinking in every little detail would be enough to distract him until John returned.

* * *

The sound of the upper door opening jolted Sherlock out of his examination of the particular patch of mold he'd been staring at. Carefully, trying not to make too much noise, he pushed away from the door. He had to close his eyes as the world blurred as he moved. Were he still capable of getting nauseous he would have.

As John descended the stairs the Dead stumbled for the bathroom, and fumbled for the switch. The light faded from outside his closed lids. Just in time as limping steps reached the bottom. Sherlock wasn't sure that John would have even noticed the faint light beneath the door but there was no sense in taking the chance.

"Evening Sherlock." The man sounded hollow. The agony in his voice drew the undead detective back to the door. John's scent came through, tea and gunpowder and pain.

"Saw Mike today." Sherlock understood immediately.

"Half his face was gone, eaten right off..." There was a thunk as the doctor leaned heavily back against the door.

"I put a cricket bat through his skull. Didn't even bloody hesitate." The man slid down into his usual position. His voice was raw with a touch of something manic.

"Didn't hesitate when I had to take out Angelo either. Saw him last week, he'd been Dead for a while. Put him to rest properly. Didn't really have a choice of course, but it's a mercy really." He snorted.

"Can't put you down though. Hell, you would hate what you've become. One of the brainless, consuming masses."

That would have been true enough, if Sherlock wasn't self aware. As it was even though his existence was boring, annoying, and highly inconvenient he had not regained proper sentience to want to throw it away so quickly. A groan of protest found its way out of his throat before he could stop it.

"Still arguing with me?" There was an ever so slightly manic note to the pain still in John's voice. Sherlock stayed quiet, not wanting to push his friend's clearly delicate mental state.

The silence stretched between them. Eventually John sighed and hauled himself to his feet.

"Night Sherlock." He left, limping heavily back up the stairs. The Dead listened to him go. There was nothing he could do for John now. The Hunger was still strong and Sherlock would not put his blogger in danger. Well, his doctor. It was unlikely that John was still blogging as the internet was no doubt gone by now. The man wouldn't be coming down to talk to the zombie in the basement had he anything better to do.

Once he was sure that John had gone for the night he shambled across the flat. A little fumbling and he found the light switch again and flipped it on. Light filled the dark and he was grateful his eyes were still closed as he pulled the door mostly closed and traveled back across the flat. Only once he was settled against a wall did he open his eyes.

Sherlock had chosen a different part of the flat to examine the pattern of light from. As before, the glowing shape on the floor was incomprehensible at first. He remembered what it had looked like the first time but the change of position was apparently enough to confuse the issue for a moment. His eyes were working properly, but his mind still wasn't translating quickly. Considering that his brain was technically dead it was no surprise that it took a moment for proper cognitive function.

The undead detective shifted, and tried to take a step while keeping his gaze focused on the rectangle of light. The world just outside of his focus point blurred and he nearly fell as he tried to multitask vision and movement.

With a rattling snarl he refocused himself. Sherlock Holmes was not about to let his own body's limitations direct his actions. To prove that determination he looked up and away from his focus point on the floor. He took a step, watching the motion-blurred progress of his own feet.

The sight was both discouraging and encouraging; the later as it proved his progress. The former as he had not been avoiding the thought of what he now looked like and he caught a glimpse of his hands.

Sherlock paused, changed his course and stopped near the strip of light. After a moment of hesitation as, he didn't want to see what Death had done to his flesh, he lifted his hands. The damage was not nearly so bad as he had feared but the sight of what had been healthy skin was still a shock.

His already pale skin had gone paler, graying and losing any sign that blood had ever flowed beneath the dead flesh. Corpse gray, blueish and touched with shadows of sickly yellow and green. The skin was pulled tight around his bones and looks like it was beginning to dry.

His fingers and hands were covered in small, bloodless, open wounds, especially the pads of each digit. Marks from all the previous hours spent clawing uselessly at the door in Hunger. Thankfully none of them were to the bone, nor through ligament or tendon.

Sherlock flexed his hands, the action was barely felt as unused muscles spasmed closed and open again. Not smooth, not by any means, but he could flex each individual finger. With concentration he ran his hands through their entire range of motion. It took a while, and the muscle play was jerky and slow, but it could be done. He had no reason to hope that fine control would return but an miracle had happened already and Sherlock was stubborn enough to try for a second.

A surge of Hunger broke his contemplation of his undead body. He felt the weight of it coming like a tidal wave. He fought it off with memories of John until he got the bathroom light off. Once the flat was plunged into darkness again and his eyes closed he surrendered. The wave crashed over him and dragged his mind down into Hungry, empty darkness. Sherlock wrapped his precious memories up and let it. John would be back soon enough to pull him out.

* * *

Limping footsteps broke through the silence. Hunger drove him to the door but he stopped himself before running into it.

John slid into his usual seat as Sherlock fought the mindless Hunger back. The Living's scent washed over him and as John spoke the last of the emptiness faded.

"Morning Sherlock." The man still sounded tired but no longer quite so raw or manic.

"Sorry for not staying longer last night."

_You don't need to apologize John. _

"Yesterday just wasn't a good day."

_And you don't have to explain yourself to me. _Sherlock might have been incapable of responding verbally but that certainly didn't stop him from thinking the words.

John snorted.

"I can just hear you calling me an idiot." There was bitter amusement in the doctor's voice.

"Right. I told you I'd let you know what's been going on..." Sherlock let his mind wander as John spoke. The undead detective remembered the events now.

Remembered how quickly the outbreak spread. Remembered how Molly had been bitten. How Sherlock had put a bullet between her tear filled, accepting eyes. Remembered how hollow he felt as he and John packed up Mrs. Hudson and sent her off with Mycroft. A trek to try to get to the Yard to see if any of them survived.

Remembered the Dead chasing him and John. John stumbling, a zombie bearing down on his prone form. Lunging into the way, no time to bring his gun to bear.

Old pain blossomed in his chest where the Dead had ripped flesh and torn muscle. His collar bone was exposed he knew, black spreading from the open wound as the infection and poisoned his blood.

John's voice faltered.

"Selfish bastard." His voice was raw, "You left me again Sherlock. And you aren't coming back this time." He was starting to sound manic now.

"Well, I made a promise, and I'll keep it. Even if I'm keeping it to a bloody corpse." John gave a bark of semi-hysterical laughter that would have made Sherlock shiver had he still possessed the reflex.

"I did manage to get over to the Yard once. Right after you died, when I didn't come down for a couple days. They wanted me to leave you. Or put a bullet through you. Couldn't of course. I swore not to leave you after all, and I won't. Not ever Sherlock." John's voice was completely manic now, with an edge of hysteria.

A low moan escaped Sherlock's throat before he could quiet himself. He froze, listening to hear what John would make of the sound.

There was silence for a moment and then John swore with a semi-hysterical laugh. There was very little humor in the sound.

"You need to stop responding to me Sherlock. I'll start to think there's something left of you in there. That maybe you won't just eat me if I open the door." The doctor's voice carried a trace of desperate, irrational hope.

"If you were anyone else I'd say that I was completely mad right now for even thinking that maybe there was something left of you in there. But you're Sherlock-bloody-Holmes and to hell with the natural order. Once or twice, that's a coincidence. Moaning all the time, well that's normal. But you," he hesitated, "You're responding. Your brain should be completely dead by now, rotting even. You should be mindlessly clawing at the door to get at me. You aren't." The hope in John's voice was growing, right along with that knife edge of insanity.

Sherlock held himself still and kept quiet. The very last thing he wanted was to give John any sort of response. Even the faintest sound now would be taken as affirmation of the man's suspicions.

It hurt a bit, realizing how far John had fallen in keeping that promise he made. Sherlock wasn't surprised. He remembered only too well how broken John had been when Sherlock had returned from the dead the first time. The man had been lifeless, unable to even sustain his furiously righteous anger over his flat mate's deception. It had taken weeks for him to recover. Only to lose his friend yet again.

It was honestly a wonder that John was still functional. Though how long that functionality would last was questionable. The doctor was undeniably going ever more mad, even if that madness did not seem to be hindering his survival.

"Right then. Now you're not going to answer me you bloody contradictory corpse." The man grumbled as he pulled himself to his feet.

"I'll be back down tomorrow Sherlock. I think I'm just going to spend the rest of the day sleeping. Probably in your bed again." It was said as an after-thought and Sherlock internally winced.

"Hard enough to get up and down two flights of stairs with my leg acting up, don't need to add a third." He paused at the foot of the stairs.

"It's your fault you know." His voice had gone quiet, musing. "It only started up after you locked yourself in there. You've broken me more effectively than anyone else has ever come close to doing. Thanks for that, you possessive, selfish bastard. Ta." The words echoed hollowly into the dark as John turned and limped up the steps.

Time lost meaning as Sherlock stood unmoving in the darkness with John's parting words rattling around his damaged skull. They were true of course. He was to blame for the deteriorating state his doctor was in. That revelation fueled a wave of self loathing.

He rattled out a sigh and headed for the bathroom light switch. Nothing he could do about it now. No matter how much he wanted to he could not allow John to know that he was sentient. The doctor's desperation for his friend back, and Sherlock's Hunger, would make that revelation a perfect set up for disaster.

The thought of John opening the door reminded Sherlock that he still hadn't retrieved the keys. With a snort, just to prove he could still make the derisive noise the Dead flicked the light on. This time he left the door entirely open, impatient to grow accustomed to light.

The world blurred and bled together as he opened his eyes. He took a moment to orient himself and allow the worst of the welcome pain to his abused retinas to fade.

The keys were in the back tank of the toilet. Safe from a mindless Dead but easy enough get to so long as he could see. If his sense of touch was still reliable he wouldn't need his eyes, but it would take far too long fishing around in the dark and hoping he grabbed the right thing. Easier to deal with the pain of light.

With yet another rattling breath he stepped into the harsh light of the only bulb still working. The world blurred and spun and he braced a hand against the door frame as the vertigo quickly passed. It took only a moment for him to recover, far less time than the first time he had tried to use his eyes.

He shifted and movement ahead of him caught his attention. Sherlock zeroed in on it like a hawk with a mouse, realizing a moment too late that the only thing that could be ahead of him would be his own reflection.

The sight of his hands had done nothing to prepare him for the full view of himself. His skin looked that same as that on his hands of course. Corpse gray, tinged with purple and green bruising where stagnant blood pooled beneath the thin skin of his lips and around his eyes. The slightly leathery, drying flesh was pulled taught across his bone structure, hollowing out his cheekbones to a nigh skeletal level.

He could see the bite on his chest now. The bone of his clavicle was exposed, a pale slash of putrid, yellowing bone amid the black-red muscle stripped of gray flesh and dripped with dried pussy green tinged ichor.

With a snarl that twisted dark lips into a rictus baring of teeth Sherlock tore his gaze away from the spiderweb of black veins that surrounded the gruesome wound. He met his own eyes in the mirror and nearly shuddered beneath his wide eyed stare.

His eyes had bleached out, becoming nearly white with only the faintest hint of gray blue in their depths. The iris was surrounded by a dark ring that splintered into the graying whites. His pupils were pin point dots in the pale color, misshapen and amorphous.

Sherlock closed his eyes, cutting off the view of the too focused stare of the Dead in the mirror. There was something viscerally wrong with a corpse with that much intelligence in its eyes. That the stare was his own did nothing to alleviate the disconcerting unease.

Yet another snarl tore its way out of Sherlock's throat as he refocused his attention. Fine, he was obviously Dead and yet still retained much of his Self. That his eyes had reflected that juxtaposition was just another fact of his continued existence he had to accept. So he did.

The fact that only moments later the mirror was shattered as the toilet tank lid smashed into it was merely an accident.

Ignoring the broken glass and porcelain Sherlock retrieved the keys. He still had no intention of using them. Having the option in the unlikely case that John would ever need him was nice though.

He left the bathroom, carefully crossing the flat to hang the keys on the doorknob. Reason for turning on the light in the first place accomplished Sherlock spent the rest of the day forcing the limits of his undead frame. It took hours to learn to smoothly control muscles that wanted to jerk in their movements. Hours to learn to compensate with sight for lack of touch.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't realized how focused on his project he'd been until he heard the upper door open and familiar footsteps begin to descend. He nearly fell as he rushed to the bathroom and snapped the light off. Just in time as John hit the bottom of the stairs.

"Morning Sherlock." His voice was bright and cheerful. Sherlock was immediately suspicious but the doctor's scent revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

John's limp was still in evidence, which would likely not have been the case had the man taken any sort of drug. The doctor slid into his usual seat in front of the door. Without preamble he began to talk, telling Sherlock what he'd been up to in the past few weeks.

The mundane, day to day survival tactics John employed seemed to be summed up with three things. Scavenge everything, avoid the Living, kill the Dead. There didn't seem to be much thought to his survival plans beyond gathering essentials and making sure he didn't die on the way back. He saw signs of other survivors often, but always kept away.

"The Dead I can deal with. Even the smart ones. It's the Living that are the really dangerous ones now." The manic note was back in his voice and Sherlock began to really understand the depths of the cracks that were running through John's mind.

That comment led John on a tangent about what he'd noticed about the zombies. The longer they had been dead, the more rotted and battered they were, the dumber and easier to kill they were. However, the fresh dead, the ones that fed regularly, those were the ones to watch out for.

"They **learn, **Sherlock. Not very quickly and nothing complex, but if I'm in one's territory they leave me alone. I think the amount of fun I have killing off the shamblers makes the runners a bit nervous. Smart enough to realize I'm dangerous." There was a nasty sort of glee in John's voice.

"You'd have been fascinated, and probably experimenting by now." He barked a laugh.

"Maybe I should start feeding you? See if you got more aware. I doubt you'd complain." John was mocking himself now.

Hunger roared and the Dead groaned in response. His body pawed at the door as he hadn't done in days. John noticed of course, and went quiet.

"You've not done that in a while, mate. The talk of food getting to you?" All amusement was gone from his tone, replaced with flat, bitter anger.

"Too bad. I'm not opening that door just to give you the chance to put your teeth into something. I'm not going to ruin Sherlock's memory like that." That was the first time John had not refereed to the Dead creature as his friend. His words washed over ears deaf to anything but the roaring emptiness in his gut. Sherlock was caught up, unable to stop his futile clawing and incessant moaning.

John snarled and surged to his feet.

"SHUT UP!" The yell was accompanied by what could only have been he fist hitting the door. The bang rattled the barrier and echoed through the basement painfully. The shock of it forced the Dead to take a stumbling step back.

Sherlock gaped in the direction of the door, glad again that the barrier was locked and bolted.. For the first time he was unsure of his conviction that John would not be able t shoot him. He stayed silent, Hunger gone and just listening to the ragged breathing from the Living.

"Selfish bastard." The mutter was torn, raw and ragged, out of John's throat.

"Don't," He paused and took a deep breath, "Don't do that again Sherlock. Just don't."

_'I'll try not to John.' _Sherlock was careful not to make any actual noise.

Silence stretched between them and John heaved a rather loud sigh.

"Right. I'm going back up now. It's been most of the day already anyway. Goodnight Sherlock." The man turned and limped off up the stairs.

_'Goodnight John.' _Sherlock didn't even let himself think the words until he'd heard the upper door close and lock. A moan accompanied the second word, sounding suspiciously like John's name.

He fell silent. So, there was a faint possibility that he might be able to speak. The undead detective stopped himself before trying to say John's name. A crash was one thing. But if John heard anything that sounded like words coming from his captive zombie the man's last thread of sanity might actually snap.

Speech practice would have to wait until John had gone out for the day. Sherlock rattled out a sigh of annoyance. Hunger flared, sudden and engulfing. It dragged him down into darkness and he let it.

* * *

Footsteps broke through as always. John's warm scent drove the rest of the Hunger off. By the time the doctor got to the last step Sherlock was in control of himself.

"Morning Sherlock." His voice was cheerful again. He sat down and began speaking, clearly going to pretend the prior night's outburst hadn't happened.

He'd found a car to steal if he needed one. A good solid van that could be loaded up with supplies if he ever got the notion to get out of the city.

"Not that I would, but having the option is nice. And I got a couple more freezers over here using it." Power was still on in a few places and John had been hoarding frozen and nonperishable food like a squirrel preparing for winter.

"Honestly I could feed a good five people for a week I think. Though I'm almost out of tea and bottled water again..." He trailed off and there was a scrape against the door as he shrugged.

He'd run across several familiar faces, and usually took the time to put them down. Spoke of his methods of killing the Dead he preferred. He favored a cricket bat of all things.

"Though I do have my gun on me just in case. I'm not stupid, no matter how many times you told me I was." His voice was dripping with sarcasm.

As he talked Sherlock finally pinpointed what had been bothering him the day before. John wasn't drugged, wasn't acting. He really was as cheerfully nonchalant about everything as he sounded. Clearly he'd detached himself somewhere going off the deep end as he had. However, as Sherlock listened he grudgingly admitted to himself that John's insanity didn't seem to be hurting his doctor. At least, the man was still functioning, still cheerful. Even though he really shouldn't be by this point. It it took John going mad to keep him stable then so be it.

Sherlock sat back, dropping the worries from his mind and listened. John rambled the rest of the day, never quite managing to stay on one subject for long. Eventually the words stopped and the doctor stood.

"Night Sherlock." He traipsed off up the stairs.

_'Goodnight John.' _Sherlock carefully didn't let a single note of sound escape his throat as he thought the words as his departing friend.

The rest of the night was spent growing further used to light and his unresponsive body.

* * *

"Morning Sherlock." The Dead had been listening carefully for the sound of the door and so the light was off before John got halfway down the stairs. Sherlock shuffled to the door, pressing against the barrier and relaxing as John's scent washed over him.

The doctor slid into his usual place.

"You're so attentive now Sherlock. Though I suppose most of that must be from boredom. Nothing to do in there all day but stare at the dark..." He trailed off, pensive and musing. With a cough he started talking and was cheerful again.

As before, he didn't manage to keep on topic. He wandered off on every little tangent. It seemed now that he didn't have a properly linear topic he couldn't focus on any one thing for long. Yet another sign of the damage to his mind. After a while John fell quiet.

"I'm tired Sherlock." No bitterness, no anger, just quiet exhaustion wore away at the previously cheerful facade.

"I really don't know how long I can keep doing this. Not the talking to you part, I could keep that up forever. But surviving out there," he paused and took a breath. "God even with the flat all locked up properly I don't feel safe." He snorted.

"Though it's the Living I'm wary of. The Dead can't pick locks."

A groan found its way out of Sherlock's throat. He cut it off but John still heard.

"Responding to me again? Well I suppose I'm not surprised, you never could stay quiet." He fell silent for a moment.

"I'm really beginning to think there's something of you left in that moaning shuffler. You respond, you stopped attacking the door most of the time. You listen..." Again he trailed off.

"Is there something left of you in there Sherlock Holmes?" John's question was soft and broken, his voice wavering. Sherlock bit back a moan. He could **not **let John know he was sentient. Could. Not.

The silence stretched thin and John sighed, hauling himself upright.

"If you were sentient at all you wouldn't answer me anyway. Too dangerous for me, you'd say. I might open the door." He took a deep breath and started up the stairs.

"That's just cruel, Sherlock. Even for you that's just cruel." He didn't say goodnight as he departed from the basement.

John's words cut though Sherlock like a dull knife. Yet again John spoke the rather painful truth. The Dead's only consolation was that this time, it really was too dangerous. No matter how much control he had gained the Hunger still gnawed at him, still swept him up and took him over.

As if thinking of it summoned the emptiness the hunger snarled to life in the depths of his undead body. He let it wash up and over him. Let the blackness drown out his own despair. Feeling nothing was better than the pain.

* * *

John's familiar footsteps were enough to break him from the Hunger's hold. The sound paused halfway down.

"Morning Sherlock." He was hesitant about the words, "I'm going out today. Need to get a few things." John snorted.

"Well, I need tea and water and to let loose and bash a few zombie's heads in. I'll come talk to you for a little while this evening, yeah?" Even if he had been expecting a response he didn't wait for one. The upper opened and closed again. Its lock slid into place. The outer door did the same. Only when the front door to 221B was closed and locked did Sherlock head for the light switch. He needed to be more careful now. John couldn't find out he was aware, unless Sherlock was certain of his self control, and he wasn't. Not yet.

The light came on. He adjusted quickly enough and now there was little disorientation when he moved. His vision still blurred, but his furiously working mind had grown accustomed to compensating. It wasn't moving that he was concentrating on today.

He had very nearly spoken John's name, or had at least groaned an approximation of the word. If he could manage to actually speak, no matter how slow or broken, he could possibly, eventually, talk to John. Maybe. He had to try to talk first and he only had a limited amount of time to practice before John returned.

There was no point in trying to speak a coherent word immediately, as his tongue and vocal chords were as stiff and disused as the rest of him. So he started with sounds, like a child. And was grateful no one was there to hear him. Trying to shape and vocalize all the separate sounds of the English language was honestly the most difficult and tedious trial Sherlock had put himself through since his awakening as undead. He couldn't feel his tongue or his throat and so he had to rely solely on his ears to get sounds correct. The undertaking of which he sorely underestimated.

* * *

His progress was halted by the sound of the outer door's locks being undone. Immediately he fell silent, starting for the bathroom to turn off the light.

A faint crash from above gave him pause. That sounded like John had dropped whatever he was carrying. The man swore, loudly, with a note of panic that not even two doors and a floor between them could dampen.

John's name wheezed out of Sherlock's throat even as the Dead man turned back for the door. It took only a moment to have the first lock undone. He hesitated, listening. If John didn't **need **him then he would be putting his doctor in unnecessary danger.

A gunshot rang out. Sherlock unlocked the dead bolts as quickly as his lack of dexterity would allow.

A second shot sounded. The last lock on the door was undone. Sherlock hesitated again. Gunshots were not enough to risk putting John in danger. The soldier was perfectly capable of handling himself. He'd been on his own for weeks after all.

John yelled, calling out for Sherlock as if he'd forgotten the man couldn't answer. With a rattling snarl the Dead wrenched the basement door open and started up the stairs as quickly as his unresponsive legs would take him.

With the fourth shot Sherlock hit the upper door so hard its lock broke free. The Dead fell to the floor under his own momentum and struggled back to his feet. He could smell John's adrenaline, and the rank odor of the Dead that threatened him.

As the fifth shot rang out Sherlock got his feet under him and lunged for the outer door. It was already unlocked and it only took him a moment to yank the portal open.

The sunlight was completely blinding for a moment and he forced himself still as his vision cleared. There were five Dead with holes through their skulls on the ground. John's back was to 221B. He was grappling with yet another Dead, the gun fallen forgotten to the ground.

Sherlock snarled, the sound tearing dryly from his throat as his sight tunneled onto the threat to John. Hunger roared within him, spurring his corpse forward. John was off-limits, but the Dead attacking him was fair game.

Neither combatant had time to react as Sherlock slammed bodily into the Dead. The force ripped it away from John and sent both zombies crashing to the pavement. Sherlock had it pinned beneath him and its struggles gave his Hunger focus.

His body responded to the prey drive triggering movement. The world darkened and tunneled to the body beneath him. Without conscious thought he slammed its head over and over into the pavement until its skull cracked. It went still as long fingers wedged into the crack and broke its skull wide open, putrid fluid gushing out.

Hunger drove him still, riding him as he scooped out semi-rotted brain matter and bit into his first meal in weeks. Hunger screamed at him as satisfaction blossomed in the yawning pit that was his stomach. He dove into the corpse, gulping down brain and moving to flesh.

Slowly the Hunger faded and Sherlock could think again. The Dead had been enough to satisfy his appetite. Interesting.

There was the ominous click of a gun being cocked behind him. John.

Swallowing the last mouthful of flesh Sherlock lurched to his feet. Slowly he turned, suddenly very aware of what he looked like. A shambling mockery of his former self, filthy and pale with his face covered in gore.

The world blurred as usual when he moved. When it spun back into focus he was staring down the barrel of John's gun. The man's hands were shaking.

* * *

Whew it was tough to write some of that. Alright, I've got a question for you lot. Keep writing from Sherlock's perspective, switch to John's, or go back and forth? Let me know what you think. I'm leaning towards switching back and forth as that would give the best perspective of both sides, but I'd like y'alls opinions.


	4. Chapter 4

Since everyone demanded it, John's POV. Have fun.

* * *

"Sherlock!" Long conditioning had had John yelling for his flatmate even though he knew there would be no help from that direction. The Dead clawing at him snapped its teeth, nearly catching his arm. Something blurred at the corner of his vision and there was a dry, throaty snarl. Before he could think to react the zombie was torn off of him and slammed into the ground beneath its attacker.

Sherlock, John realized. Pale and thin with too long limbs, John only took a moment to wonder how the undead had gotten out of the basement before scrambling for his gun. He pulled himself back to his feet and watched in horror as the thing that had once been his flatmate beat the zombie's skull open and tore into its brains, and then moved onto the rest of its flesh.

John cocked the gun and the Dead stilled completely. Slowly Sherlock, _it_, lurched to its feet, swallowing a last mouthful of flesh. Sher- _it _- turned to face him. John followed the movement with his eyes and gun, the latter wavering slightly as he stared.

He hadn't been able to see, so a part of his brain still saw the Sherlock he'd always known. Blue eyes that could be green or even violet, when his moods changed. Skin that was pale, but pink from the blood that came from a beating heart. Movements that had always been graceful and fluid, even with that lean and lanky frame. It was all gone. All of it.

"S-stay back, Sherlock." His voice trembled and he cursed himself for calling this creature by that man's name.

The Dead tilted its head, bleached out eyes staring at him unblinking. It rattled out a breath, jerking as it seemed to shake its head. The movement had John swallowing thickly. He tried to steady his aim on its head to no avail. Under any other circumstances he'd be as steady as a rock, but right there, right now, with the prospect of having to shoot Sherlock, there was no hope of stilling the tremors. Tears began to well up, blurring his vision slightly and he blinked rapidly to try to dislodge them.

"D-don't! Don't make me do this. I'll shoot you. I will. I'll put you down like I should have done in the beginning. I will Sherlock. Swear to God I will." His voice cracked on the last word. He didn't know if he'd be able to though, didn't know if he could take that final shot. The tears overflowed.

The Dead's eyes narrowed ever so slightly and the creature shook its head jerkily and took a shuffling step backwards. It pulled in a wheezing breath and straightened up, looking John in the eye.

"Joh-hn." The voice was rough and rasping and slow, but that was his name spoken in Sherlock's deep voice. His heart stopped in his chest and his breath froze for long enough that his vision darkened. Without thinking he lowered his gun as he gaped at the creature.

Movement behind Sherlock caught his attention and he snapped the weapon back up as a Runner bolted down the street with the Dead's odd, almost tripping, run. The gun steadied and aimed just past Sherlock's head. His pale gaze flickered over the weapon and he stood firm and still as John took the shot.

The bullet connected with the Runner's skull in a burst of bone and decaying brain matter. Sherlock's pupils went to pinpricks and John caught a glimpse of ravenous Hunger as the Dead whirled on the fallen zombie, nearly tripping over his own feet. He fell on the dropped corpse, cracking its skull open on the concrete and wrenching the cavity wide to feed on its rotted brain with feverish need.

John just stared, unable to look away from this thing that wore Sherlock's face and apparently spoke with his voice. He should put it down, it was one of the Dead no matter what it looked like. Yet...there was something there. Sherlock's gaze had been too sharp, too focused. No other Dead John had ever seen had _**looked**_at him like that. Not like potential food, but searching, examining. Deducing.

Then there was the matter of him eating the Dead. That was new. He'd clearly passed up Living, healthy flesh to feed on rotted corpses. And he'd spoken.

"Sherlock?" He hated the way his voice caught on the word and he readjusted his grip on his gun as the Dead looked jerkily up at him, brain matter splattering his face and chest and hands. They locked eyes a moment, Sherlock's piercing and wild, and the Dead dropped his gaze to the zombie he'd been feeding on. He drew another slow breath.

"Hun-gry." Oh. Oh, of course he was. The Dead were always ravenously hungry, and even the smarter ones couldn't control themselves around fresh meat. And Sherlock had been in the basement for weeks, without food. John swallowed and readjusted his grip on his gun again. A couple of steps up and back and he had the open door of 221B at his back, a much more secure position than before.

"Don't let me stop you then, mate." John wasn't entirely sure how he managed to sound flippant.

Sherlock looked back up at him, head tilted and eyes narrowed. The look was all too familiar and the doctor froze beneath it. Finally the Dead snorted and hauled himself upright, movements jerky but slow and careful. He looked to John once more, and as the man gave a short nod he fell onto another dropped zombie, tearing into it as if he hadn't just devoured the brains of two others.

John just watched him, too used to gore to even bat an eyelash at watching the Dead detective eat. It gave him a chance to properly observe after all. Sherlock didn't move like the freshly Dead, but he wasn't quite to the point that all he could do was shamble either. He moved like his nerves were numb, but he was being careful and each motion was deliberate enough that he didn't trip himself or get in his own way. He wasn't rotted properly either, skin graying and pale and slightly leathery, like he was beginning to mummify. Better than rot really, at least he didn't smell as bad as most of them did.

"You couldn't be normal, even Dead, could you Sherlock?" He put his gun away and picked his scavenged groceries back up.

At his voice Sherlock looked up, gore dripping down his front. He gulped down a last mouthful and stumbled to his feet, and took a couple of shambling steps forward before stopping. It was clear that he'd stopped far enough back that he couldn't lunge and grab John and that the action was a conscious decision. He'd gone right back to staring in that painfully familiar fashion, though the lack of blinking at all was new.

"Right then, of course you couldn't." John shifted, just watching the Dead man, "You, what, break out of the basement to come rescue me and decide that you'd rather eat zombies instead of what you're supposed to be eating?" He was aware that his voice was getting a touch higher as shock began to set in but he ignored it.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, entire posture slumped as was normal for the Dead. His eyes narrowed again and he dragged in a breath in what John was coming to realize was preparation to speak.

"John...s-saaaafe." John stared at him blankly as his mind caught up with the two nearly groaned out words. Oh. Oh!

"Safe? You were trying to keep me safe?" He shifted, uneasy about asking what he needed ask.

"And you don't...don't want to crack my head open or take a chunk or two out of a limb?" John was proud that his voice stayed steady. Sherlock rattled out a hiss and shook his head so hard he nearly overbalanced. With a groan that might have been a curse the Dead righted himself and stared again, eyes tight.

"Right then. You were keeping me safe. You broke out of five padlocks to just keep me safe. And you don't fancy me edible. That's...good, yeah. That's...right then" His voice wavered again and he took a breath to steady himself, looking away from those pale eyes a moment. He shifted his grip on the bag over his shoulder as he looked down the street.

"This place should be crawling with Dead by now." He gave a strained chuckle, "I think you scared them off, mate. Fancy that, you frighten the Dead." A giggle that might have been just a little hysterical found its way out of his throat.

The fact that Sherlock looked around slowly and then twitched his unresponsive facial muscles into a rictus grin didn't help the ridiculousness any. The expression fell away quickly, as if it was too much of a strain to hold it and he just stood there listlessly, still staring. John was growing used to the unwavering gaze.

"Oh God, I'm giggling. You're Dead and covered in decaying brain matter and just ate through three other zombies. I can't giggle!" He ran a hand over his face to try to calm the hysterics down a bit. A deep breath helped further.

"Right. I know I'm out of my mind, but..." John stepped aside and gestured the Dead inside, "Come on, Sherlock. Not going to leave you out here and I guess there's no point putting you back in the basement again."

Sherlock nodded jerkily and shambled forward, stumbling up the stairs and into the hall of the flat. John noticed the way he moved, slow and hesitant and he fixed his gaze on points ahead of him before moving forward as if tracking while he was moving was difficult. The Dead stopped just inside, waiting for his flatmate.

John glanced back around, made sure there were no Dead watching and slipped in as well, carefully bolting the several locks on the front door. A glance showed that the basement door was broken open and with a snort he just shoved it closed. He hitched his bag up on his shoulder and headed for the stairs, looking back towards the still undead in the corner.

"Well, come on then." He paused at the top of the stairs. Sherlock gave a rattling hiss and started up them, pale hand clenched onto the rail and he paused between each step. The action of climbing the stairs clearly took every single bit of his concentration and John felt something constrict in his chest at watching him struggle with something that had been so very easy for him. There was a tightness around the Dead's eyes that indicated he was just as bothered by his lack of dexterity.

John winced and proceeded him into the flat, locking the door behind them both as Sherlock paused and stared at the abnormally clean room.

"You're room's clean too. I dust on a regular basis and tidied up everything...course I did that to the rest of the flat too...Kitchen's operational again, especially without your experiments hiding everywhere. And I think Mycroft's been keeping this place with electricity and water, he knows I'm still here and does know what happened to you...Not going to complain about it of course, keeps me comfortable." John let himself ramble as Sherlock stared at him, and the doctor marveled at being able to do so without being interrupted at all. The undead detective only nodded slowly and looked towards the bathroom, starting slowly for it.

"Sho-wer." John chuckled and put his bag down in the kitchen. No doubt Sherlock was desperate to get clean after three weeks in the basement and then getting covered in gore.

"Right, you head over there and I'll grab you clothes." He listened to the dragging footsteps of his undead flat mate as he grabbed a clean set of Sherlock's pajamas from his room. No point in getting anything more fancy for the dead. He didn't notice as he began to muse aloud about the situation, too used to being alone and talking to himself to remember that there was someone else to listen to him.

"Right then. He's Dead. He's jerky and he's shambling just like the rest of them. But he's talking. He remembers me, obviously, knows who I am and wants to keep me safe...God, and I've let him into my safe-house. I'm acting like he's still alive but he isn't. I can see that he isn't...but he's not acting like the other Dead..." John came out of the bathroom where he'd left the clothing and a towel and froze as the subject of his rambling was standing right in front of him. There was a faint glitter that was likely amusement in the depths of Sherlock's bleached eyes. John flushed slightly and glowered at him, stepping around him.

"Shut up and take your shower you git. Groan if you need anything." Sherlock gave him another twitching, rictus grin and shambled past him. The door closed clumsily and John took the time to put away what he'd managed to scavenge. He listened quietly to the banging about and the occasional hiss over the sound of water and could only imagine the trouble the Dead was having with his clothing, let alone actually getting himself clean. By the time the door opened again John was sitting at the kitchen table, finishing up cleaning his gun.

Apparently Sherlock had had as much trouble as it sounded like he had. His hair was only partially dried, his clothing sloppily pulled on and the tightness around his pale eyes spoke of frustration. There was still grime under his nails and he clearly couldn't get himself completely clean on his own. No surprise really, it was obvious how unresponsive his body was and it was likely that his sense of touch was completely gone. Ignoring those little signs and the skin tone though, the undead looked merely rumpled.

John couldn't help but chuckle as he put his gun into his holster at his back.

"If you weren't so obviously dead I'd think you just woke up from an after case sleeping binge." The grin he leveled at the Dead was easy, relaxed, and he was rewarded by an easing of the tension around Sherlock's eyes. The Dead man huffed out a lungful of air and shambled into the living room...and flopped down on the couch. John laughed.

"And now it really is like you never left. Well, other than your lack of blinking or breathing." Sherlock didn't respond but with that blank stare. John just shrugged and grabbed a random movie and turned the telly on low to watch it.

"This might bore you a bit, but I've taken to watching movies in the evenings. Helps remind me of before the world went mad." Sherlock shifted on the couch so the he could see the television but made no comment throughout the whole of the movie. Once the movie ended John got out and put it away.

"Until the 'net went down I updated the blog, but there's no point in doing that any longer with it gone now." He was obscurely sad about that, as he had enjoyed writing.

Sherlock shifted, sitting up on the couch and giving a low noise that might have been agreement of some type. His pale, unblinking gaze was completely focused on the doctor, and it was getting mildly unnerving again. Somehow the Dead man noticed that he was unnerving John and blinked, the motion slow and twitching. John winced.

"You attempting to blink is worse, don't do that." Sherlock snorted in response, an action that was clearly consciously done. The sound of derision was familiar and welcoming. John's shoulders relaxed.

"Good. Right." He nodded and took a breath, "Okay, I think I can handle this." He really wasn't quite as sure as he sounded but Sherlock didn't need to know that. Besides, it was far better to have him even like this than to believe he was still alone and that the genius was completely gone.

Sherlock hauled himself into a sitting position on the couch and gave a short nod. He pulled in a breath.

"G-good." Even with the stutter the word was so decisive and so **Sherlock **that John couldn't help but laugh. The sound was semi-hysterical and a touch manic but John got himself under control quickly enough and stood, shaking his head.

"I don't know what's worse. The fact that you're Dead, and still functioning somehow, or the fact that I'm fine with it!" He ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath, trying to calm the circles his mind was running in.

"I've well and truly lost it, haven't I? I know you can't answer that, but you don't really need to." He bit that off and was unsurprised as Sherlock hissed at him. It seemed to be his new sound of irritation, probably one of the easiest vocalizations for him to get out. His pale eyes were narrowed and he dragged in a rattling breath.

"Nnnot c-comm-plet-ly l-lost it." The simple sentence took several seconds for the Dead to get out and he was clearly frustrated with his inability to speak quickly. John stared at him and snorted.

"That's just a fair bit creepy, mate. But the fact that you're talking, actually talking, is the biggest reason I could let you up here. Dunno how much you're actually following though." He trailed off, sitting back down heavily and ran a hand over his face with a sigh. Sherlock pulled in a breath that groaned, eyes narrowed.

"I c-can th-think f-f-fine." He had to take a breath between every other word and it seemed to take every bit of concentration he had to speak clearly. John stared at him, trying to understand his friend's words.

"I don't; you mean to tell me that your brain's working? That you can reason and logic and actually think like a living person? You know we were told the Dead can't think any more, Sherlock, that proper memories and reasoning are gone. But you're saying you've got that? That you can actually think?" He knew how incredulous he sounded, even in the face of evidence that Sherlock was fully aware. The Dead man gave a jerky nod.

"You t-talked to mmme." John blinked at him and continued staring as he let that settle in his head, Sherlock didn't seem to mind.

"I talked to you...and it gave your brain, what? Some sort of jump start?" Sherlock nodded again, stiff body tense.

"You're saying your brain is fully functional? Like before? Thousand-kilometer-an-hour thinking with no slowing down? Taking in everything, no matter how small, retaining it and then deleting what you don't think you need? Your brain is 'alive'?" Horror was beginning to creep into his mind as he processed this. Sherlock nodded sharply, eyes tight yet again.

"Oh God..." A hand came up and ran over his face, settling in front of his mouth in an involuntary reaction, "Oh dear God, and you're stuck in..." He trailed off as his gaze raked over Sherlock very Dead form. "You've been stuck like that this whole time?"

The undead detective shook his head slowly.

"D-door." John frowned at him, trying to figure out what he meant by that.

"When you stopped clawing at the door every day?" It got him an affirmative nod. John let out a breath.

"That was almost a week ago Sherlock. You've been down there for three..." The doctor's eyes narrowed as he thought and then flew wide.

"Oh God, you remembered everything while I was screaming at you didn't you?" His voice was soft and a touch apologetic. The Dead man shrugged a shoulder stiffly.

"Mmem-or-ry w-was in p-pieces b-be-fore then." John nodded as he understood and dragged a hand over his face again.

"That...must have been torture for you." His voice was hollow as he realized that his friend had been alone in the dark all this time. Even if his memory was in pieces it was clear that his mind had still been working at least a little to remember anything at all. The tightness around Sherlock's bleached eyes and the tenseness to his shoulders spoke far more loudly than words.

"No wonder you ripped into those Dead. You must have been starving by then." Jon tilted his head at him, "You seemed satisfied at least a bit after eating them though." The undead detective nodded sharply.

"So the Dead can eat other Dead, but they'd rather go for the Living. Already know they'll go for animals if that's the only thing nearby. Wonder if you could get by on that if there weren't any Dead?" He shook his head with a snort, "Never mind, there'll always be Dead around, more get made every damn day after all as some poor survivor slips up just the once." His dark eyes raked over Sherlock's form. The clean, incongruous clothing made a jarring juxtaposition against his yellowy tinged gray skin. The Bite that infected him could be seen through the thin fabric, a stain of black against pale gray.

John pulled his gaze from the wound he knew was there and looked to his undead flat mate's face. Sherlock was still staring, unblinking and expressionless. The doctor was beginning to get used to it.

"So, you've fed now. Are you still hungry?" The question got him a snort.

"Al-ways hun-gry." John didn't think he was imagining the mocking note in the rasping voice, "Mmman-ag-able nnow." That was interesting.

"So you're still hungry but you've got control of yourself now since you've eaten?" It really was obvious what Sherlock meant but the clarity was needed all the same and John was no longer adept at holding his tongue. Sherlock merely nodded jerkily, not snarking at him as he would have before. There was a minute pang of loss at the realization that doing such would take far more concentration than the Dead man cared to give.

"Then I just need to keep you fed and I won't be in any danger from you, yeah?" John sat back in his chair as he mused, "I suppose I could drag bits back here for you, cut off one's limbs so you can have its brain and a good bit of meat left." There was no horror at all in his voice as he discussed chopping up bodies to bring them back to his zombie. Sherlock shook his head slowly, eyes never wavering from their focus on John.

"G-go out w-with you." He was getting a little clearer the longer they conversed. John raised a brow.

"What, take you out scavenging with me?" He turned the idea over in his mind, "Could be practical. Give me someone to watch my back that I don't have to worry about getting bitten. Or stabbing me in the spine." He trailed off and barked a slightly hysterical laugh.

"What the bloody hell am I thinking? You're Dead, you shouldn't be doing anything but making a meal of me. Yet here you are, offering to eat the things that try to hurt me. You do realize that none of this makes any damn sense don't you?" John was aware of the faintly manic tone in his voice, but the look that Sherlock leveled at him was calm and steady, with no sign of a zombie's mad hunger.

"John. Safe." The first two words Sherlock had spoken to him rang through the quiet of the flat. A promise and an assurance.

"Still on that? You're turn to try to protect me then, 'stead of the other way 'round. That it?" The manic note was still there, but John felt exhaustion creeping up and drowning it out. Sherlock just nodded yet again.

"Yeah alright. Keeping me safe means eating other Dead." He snorted, "Don't doubt you'd go after the Living that came after me either, would you Sherlock?" The Dead man shrugged stiffly.

"Al-ways, hun-gry." John snorted.

"Sherlock Holmes wanting to eat. That's certainly new, and a bloody sure sign the world's ended." The statement was sarcastic and John hauled himself up to go peek out the window, checking the street. The Dead killed earlier were still laying on the concrete, and there were a few more shuffling about beneath stuttering streetlights.

One in particular caught his attention. A child, no more than ten, dragging a ragged stuffed giraffe by its neck. The toy was coated in blood and stuffing was coming out of its torn chest. John jerked the window closed and leaned back against the wall as the urge to go out and put down every one of the wretched things out there welled up and threatened to send him storming out of the flat in a suicide march.

The sound of a body shifting on the couch snapped open eyes he hadn't known he'd closed. Sherlock was standing, still on the other side of the coffee table from him and watching him closely. This wasn't the flat staring of before, his eyes were searching, somehow softer than a moment before. Though still they were the discolored, amorphous pupils of the Dead and there was no getting around that fact.

John swallowed thickly as he realized that Sherlock had been privy to everything he'd said, and likely knew better than he did how tenuous his grip on his sanity was.

"Now it feels like you're studying me like you used to. 'Cept your eyes are more dead of course." He tried to sound flippant. Sherlock managed to twitch a brow like he was trying to raise it and snorted at him. John grinned and headed for the kitchen, good mood entirely restored.

It took him but a moment to get a meal of beans and canned fruit and a bit of toast with a thin layer of precious jam and a bottle of water together. He allowed himself to ramble as he did.

"The water works, but it's only good for bathing. I don't trust that it might not be contaminated. 'Course, could have been the food, could be in the air so it's a bit of a moot point isn't it? Anyway beans are an easy source of protein that I don't have to cook, and therefore, won't make any smells. Not that I think the smell of cooking it going to actually draw in more of the Dead but there's no point in testing the theory on a regular basis is there?" Throughout it all Sherlock just stood silent, posture slumped and sagging and just watched him with that unwavering gaze. He didn't even draw a breath to attempt to speak.

"Somehow I don't even feel bothered that you aren't going to talk back to me. On one hand, you don't verbally insult me anymore, or deduct me constantly. But on the other... I do miss the sound of your voice." The words were out before John was thinking on what he was saying and he felt his throat close up just a touch. Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment and then his expression fell slack again.

"I-di-ot." The familiar insult had John laughing. It wasn't a happy laugh, tainted as it was with an aching soul deep exhaustion and sadness. His eyes started welling up and within a moment he was fully in a breakdown, tears and laughter all intermingling into something manic and giving testament to just how broken he was. The laughter faded into quiet sobbing and he leaned against the counter as he tried to get himself under control.

A cool hand settled onto his back and he snapped upright, whirling around and flattening back against the counter. John's dark eyes were wide as he stared at Sherlock, who slowly dropped his hand and stumbled backwards. The Dead's own pale eyes were just as wide under John's almost violent reaction and the twisted expression slowly falling off his face said that he'd been trying to comfort his friend the only way he could.

Sherlock backed away as his face went impassive again, eyes tight once more. His shoulders hunched and his weight shifting leg to leg like he was unsteady. John stared at him as he got his breathing under control. He hadn't been expecting to be touched and Sherlock clearly hadn't expected the doctor's reaction. In fact...the dead man looked downright apologetic, and perhaps a touch pained that John flinched from him. The living heaved a sigh and relaxed, waving a hand slightly.

"I'm fine Sherlock. Its fine. It wasn't you I was flinching over. No one's touched me in weeks. Hell, getting touched would mean I messed up and was about to get eaten out there." He locked his dark gaze with Sherlock's pale.

"Thank you. For that. I wasn't pulling away from you." He felt like it was important to let Sherlock know that. Even if the Dead man didn't particularly care he still needed to know that John trusted him, accepted him.

Sherlock stared a while longer and nodded. His swaying stilled and he pulled in a breath.

"Tired." The word was oddly dragged out but it was obvious that the Dead didn't mean that _**he**_was tired. John pulled a hand down his face and sighed.

"Yeah. I am a bit." A thought occurred to him and he frowned slightly, "What are you going to do while I'm sleeping?" John wasn't entirely sure he was comfortable with the Dead loose in the flat while he slept. Even if it was Sherlock.

Fortunately they seemed to be on the same page as the undead detective nodded towards his bedroom.

"L-lock mmmme in." John nodded and moved around the Dead. Sherlock followed.

"Yeah that'll work. I'll lock you in and move something in front of it just in case, yeah? I'll let you out tomorrow and we'll go scavenging...Well, hunting in your case I suppose." Amusement filled his tone at the thought of Sherlock actually hunting. However, he'd seen the damage the Dead detective could do to another zombie and it was brutally effective.

Sherlock merely nodded and shuffled into his bedroom, collapsing face down onto his bed with a groan. John laughed and shook his head as he pulled the door closed and slid home the deadbolt he'd installed in a moment of boredom. A chair was wedged beneath the knob as an extra measure.

He paused, he'd started a tradition with the zombie and he was loath to discontinue the practice.

"Good night, Sherlock." He kept the words soft, and for a moment he wasn't sure the Dead even heard them. A very muffled whisper of sound came from the locked and barricaded room.

"G-good nnnight, John." Relief surged through him. He wasn't hallucinating, wasn't completely mad. Sherlock was back, was still himself, even if he was a three week old corpse.

Only then did he go up to his own room. He locked the door, slide the dresser in front of it and changed clothes before dropping in exhaustion onto his own bed. For the first time in weeks he slept peacefully.

* * *

Sherlock listened as John finally left to get his own rest. Heard the man pushing about furniture and surmised that he was barricading his own door. Good. He wasn't completely trusting of the creature he'd let into his sanctuary.

The tiny little bit of him left that was purely human protested that thought. It was drowned out by cold logic. They both knew the Hunger of the Dead, they'd both seen it, and both knew not to trust it. It didn't matter how in control Sherlock seemed, he was dangerous. At least some part of John seemed to realize and accept that fact.

The last of the air from earlier squeezed out of his lungs and he didn't bother drawing another breath or shifting from where he still had his face in the pillow. His eyes were closed, protecting the precious tissue, and he had neither desire nor reason to move for the rest of the night. What little feeling he had left was rather happy to have a bed rather than the cold floor but that thought was swept aside as unimportant.

John. Dear God he had underestimated how broken the man was, how lonely and desperate and mad he was. It was as of yet unclear just how much Sherlock could fix the damage done to the good doctor. Even worse, how much he could do with his quite limited speech capabilities. Most mental cures required a great deal of talking. He'd have to hope that his mere presence helped the man come back to himself a bit.

Slim hope.


End file.
